


In Plain Sight

by Sunnybone



Series: Years and Years [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Friends to Lovers, I'm extremely sappy so like it'll be there, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Not Really Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Slow Burn, depressed disaster bi Sylvain, eventual canon character death, this will have a happy ending I swear lmao, trans felix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-10-24 10:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnybone/pseuds/Sunnybone
Summary: The promised class reunion has come, and with it a real chance of turning the war with the Empire to the Kingdom's favor. As the war progresses, Sylvain finds it harder to keep up the facade of not-being-in-love with his best friend. ...So does Felix.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are, I'm finally getting to the Sylvix part of this Sylvix endgame series lmao

Sylvain had always loved Felix—when they were children it was the deep and unflinching kind of love you have for your dearest friend, the kind of love that meant you only shrugged and said “Alright” when he looked at you, eight and skinny and face mottled with frustrated tears because he still couldn't score a point on his brother in a duel, and said “From now on, call me Felix.”

It had changed, when they'd gotten older, and for a bit he had loved Felix and hated himself—Felix wasn't a girl, and he knew that, but it didn't stop him waking up from dreams and lying in bed with his fist in his mouth because Felix _wasn't_ a girl, Felix _was not a girl_, and no one had ever told him he could dream about boys (even if Felix was _never _a girl in _those_ dreams).

By the time he'd realized his feelings for Felix weren't confined to dreams it was too late to really do anything about it—they'd both changed in ways that made it almost impossible to tell Felix how much he loved him and in what ways. Felix was cold and angry and wounded after Glenn's death, and sometimes Sylvain felt like they were always on the edge of a fight, like Felix was a cornered animal snapping at anyone who came too close, and Sylvain was almost _always_ too close. Sylvain, for his part, had been flirting with any and every girl he could, his own way of snapping—none of them saw _him_ anyways, just his title and his blood, just wanted to use him, so why shouldn't he use them, first?

He hadn't realized just how much he'd screwed himself over until Felix had caught him absently staring and had hissed, absolute murder in his eyes, “I'm not one of your _girls_, Sylvain.”

“I know that—“ he'd started, bewildered, and Felix had practically snarled at him.

“Then don't look at me like I _am_.” Sylvain had wanted to say that he never could, because in some part he hated every girl he flirted with, the way he hated himself, and he could _never_ hate Felix—but Felix had stormed off. Sylvain just stood there and despised himself down to the marrow because he _knew_ Felix would never see his affection as anything but a denial of who Felix was, and it was his own fault. It was his own stupid behavior that had ruined it for him.

It didn't change anything, though, didn't stop Sylvain from flirting with girls because he couldn't stop twisting the knife in and salting his own wounds. He knew what everyone thought of him, that he was a hopeless buffoon, but he'd rather that than everyone kissing his ass over his stupid Crest. Actively encouraged the perception, really; if they wanted to think they knew everything about him, he'd give them something easy to digest.

Hardly anyone ever looked past the fake grin and the flirt anyways.

He hadn't had much time for it lately, though—not much time to flirt with girls when your lands have been under a figurative pincer attack for four years. Sreng had always been a problem, border raids and skirmishes, but it was the Kingdom's own lords that made life really difficult. At least in the worst winter months the snow in the mountains was enough to confine most of the Sreng problem—the parts of Gautier territory that connected to the Kingdom weren't as impassable though, and Sylvain didn't envy his father the job of keeping their new Imperial neighbors at bay year round.

Everything had _really_ gone to shit in his life when Garreg Mach fell.

He still dreamed about the battle, sometimes, the real start of a full scale war. But it was the aftermath, the desperate flight as they abandoned the monastery in defeat, half dragging Dimitri as he muttered after Edelgard's blood, the loss of Professor Byleth... things had simply gotten worse and worse.

Dimitri's execution had been especially hard.

Even Felix agreed that Dimitri may have been hell-bent on killing Edelgard, but he couldn't have killed his uncle—an assassination was not Dimitri's style. Felix said he was too much of a wild animal to kill in such a way, and Sylvain couldn't really disagree. Not after how Dimitri had reacted in the Holy Tomb, the way he had changed. And he knew there were many who believed Dimitri was still alive, but it hadn't made the _thought _of his friend being beheaded any easier.

As time went on, Sylvain privately wondered if maybe it wouldn't be better, _kinder_, if Dimitri really _was_ dead—the holdout Lords of the Kingdom hadn't made any progress in years, just an endless stalemate, and Sylvain was wise enough to look at their resources and know it absolutely wasn't _endless_. Their resistance wasn't sustainable, and the Empire only really needed to take the Fraldarius lands to crumble and absorb the rest of Faerghus. The Kingdom didn't have any such hopes in regard to the Empire—not enough troops or supplies to mount any kind of offensive.

If Dimitri was truly still alive somewhere, there wasn't much for him to come back to.

But Gilbert and Rodrigue were sure, and even Felix expressed some belief that Dimitri was probably alive. They kept up their search while Sylvain just tried to help manage his territories.

It was lonely. It was shit. Ingrid wrote to him when she could, and he still saw Felix occasionally, but it was always about the war. Always about the struggle. He was called on more and more to wield the Lance of Ruin, and he felt crushed by the idea that his Crest was going to dictate things up until his last moment, probably ground beneath the heel of the Empire. He missed the foolish, oblivious young man who had attended the Academy, carefree because he couldn't possibly know a war was coming, one he would most likely lose.

It was actually a letter from Mercedes that reminded him of their promise to return to Garreg Mach—it seemed foolish now, with Dimitri missing and Byleth dead, to plan a class reunion. But it also warmed him, to think of maybe seeing them all again, at least once before this war was over. Ingrid had agreed, and Felix thought it was foolish but he seemed to understand something of the fatal despair growing behind Sylvain's grins.

And there were rumors, too, that a monstrous beast was tearing through Imperial forces, leaving only carnage behind. The information available was sparse, more exaggerated rumor than fact—the Empire would want details suppressed, would not want it known if there was truly some creature hindering their troops, a weakness. But when Gilbert and Rodrigue pieced the information they gathered together, a path of years leading back to Fhirdiad was unmistakable.

Felix snorted at the description of crushed skulls, rent limbs, and only muttered “a beast indeed.”

It might seem like fate that the 'beast' was supposedly in the area of Garreg Mach, but Sylvain thought the last place Dimitri was happy was probably the Academy; it was the last place _Sylvain_ was happy, for sure. It made sense that Dimitri might go back there, promise of a reunion or not. Gilbert certainly believed Dimitri was there, and he had left before Sylvain arrived in Galatea territory to meet Felix and Ingrid, the trio following behind with a small group of soldiers from their respective territories.

Every step closer to Garreg Mach, Sylvain had found himself feeling lighter, more like his younger self, teasing Ingrid and Felix and smiling more easily. Felix grumbled that he didn't care about the reunion, was only going to see if the boar still lived, but he listened with poorly feigned disinterest as Ingrid and Sylvain discussed their classmates. Mercedes they knew would be there, which meant Annette as well, and none of them had seen Ashe since House Rowe had capitulated but Ingrid had gotten a letter about his leaving. Dedue had been missing since Dimitri's supposed execution, and they all felt they knew what that meant.

None of them had expected Byleth to be there.

Sylvain wasn't sure which was more painful, seeing Byleth again or seeing Dimitri so broken and reduced. He couldn't see the friend he had grown up with in this dead-eyed man who bellowed after blood, demanding slaughter. Sylvain thought this must be what Felix had felt six years ago, after they had suppressed the rebellion in the Western Kingdom together, and he suddenly understood all those years of sneering and calling Dimitri a beast and a boar.

Sylvain didn't sneer, he felt no contempt or revulsion when he looked at Dimitri—just more of the same growing despair, filling him up drop by drop until he would drown in it.

Byleth at least was a blessing, bringing them all together with the same easy command they'd had as a professor. Even as they looked bewildered at each new bit of information about the last five years, their very presence alone seemed to invigorate their former students. Maybe it was just the miracle of _gaining _something, getting something _back_ from all the losses they'd endured these five years.

The monastery itself was a wreck, and that was just one more sting in a thousand. Even so, it was still more defensible than the ruined town below, and they set up camp in their old quarters. The dormitories for the most part were untouched—anyone breaking into the monastery for valuables would find far more wealth in the artifacts and relics than in student rooms. It was only dust and time that had touched the dorms, and Sylvain stood in Ingrid's doorway while she wrinkled her nose at the state of things.

“You and Annette were right about cleaning up, at least,” she started, “we'll get sick from all this dust if we don't. Ugh.” She frowned at a pillow she had lifted from the bed to gingerly sniff. “Laundry might be the first priority, after food and clean water. These definitely _smell_ like they've been here for five years.”

“Are you gonna be good to sleep in here?” He knew Ingrid liked things to be neat, clean, and orderly, but even more than the cleanliness of the room he was worried about how _wrong_ it felt. All of Ingrid's things from five years before, a much happier time, covered in dust and neglected, almost mockingly. When she looked up at him questioningly, he decided she would probably be OK. But to be sure, “If you want, you could always bunk with me.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes and threw the pillow at him, which he caught.

“I'll be just fine in _here_ by myself, Sylvain—_I_ don't have any problem sleeping alone.” He could tell her that he had slept alone for five years, excepting the odd hunting dog taking advantage of the coldest months to sneak up onto the bed; she probably wouldn't believe it. Instead, he tossed the pillow back to her and took a step backwards into the hall.

“I'm sure Ashe will be heartbroken to hear that,” he said, and Ingrid turned red and threw the pillow at him for real.

“Get _out_, Sylvain, you're awful,” but there was more honest embarrassment than venom in it, and he thought it was a little sweet after how she had lit up to see Ashe when they had all rejoined. Maybe there was one good thing in all of this awfulness.

“Goodnight, Ingrid,” he said, tossing her the pillow again, and she sighed an exasperated goodnight back before she closed her door and he headed down the hall towards his old room, all the way at the end.

He faltered in the hallway as he passed Claude's old room, paused... stepped up to the door and put his hand on the knob. But he did not turn it, did not want to go inside and see how time had neglected its contents. Instead he stood, head slowly drooping until his forehead pressed against the dusty wood. If he didn't open the door, he could pretend he was still the young man who laughed with Claude, not the weary one who hadn't seen his friend since the war started, hadn't even known if Claude was alive until word filtered in about the Alliance's stance on the war. If he tried, he could imagine that Claude was inside, waiting on one side of the bed with the chessboard already set up in the middle, reading and taking notes from three books at once.

The last time he'd been in there, Sylvain remembered, he had sat at the head of the bed with his back against the wall and his legs outstretched, Claude on his back using Sylvain's thigh as a pillow, and they had argued good-naturedly about the best composition for a defensive line along a theoretical mountain border until they'd left for lunch in town. It had been simple, and Sylvain had been happy.

Sylvain pushed himself away from the door and continued the rest of the way to his own room with his head down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh lordt, I'm sorry this is gonna be a long ride lmao ;U; I have uhhh 8 chapters planned out right now but I will not be surprised if it actually balloons because I'm. bad at guesstimating how long my writing will wind up. I know there wasn't a lot of Sylvain and Felix interacting this chapter but that will change next chapter. Please bear with me and thanks for sticking around! ;U;
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@AceMorningStar](https://twitter.com/AceMorningStar)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes some of that canon-typical violence

Things picked up in the following week, as word got out somehow that Byleth and Dimitri were alive and (questionably) well in Garreg Mach. Sylvain supposed the Knights of Seiros must have kept the monastery under watch in case Lady Rhea or Byleth reappeared during their search, which meant that Edelgard probably kept the monastery under watch as well. Byleth and Gilbert felt the same, and everyone prepared as best they could for the inevitable attack.

Their allies grew as the core bulk of the Knights of Seiros and the Church's remaining members returned, and Sylvain was surprised to see a few familiar faces from the academy—Caspar and Linhardt trickled in, followed by Leonie and an unexpected Marianne. But most surprising of all was Ferdinand, odd enough that were he anyone but _Ferdinand_ he might be considered a spy. Stripped of his lands and his title, in conflict with his Emperor, he seemed painfully eager to assist, and he quickly became Byleth's right hand. They needed the extra help, with everyone looking to them to run the church _and_ guide the war, and Ferdinand seemed to both need the purpose and be born to the role.

With the returning knights and monks, they now had ample hands to improve their conditions at the monastery, though supplies were still a problem. Sylvain was in a meeting with the other hastily designated leaders, standing in with Felix for their fathers, when word came in that Empire troops had been spotted on the march to Garreg Mach.

Preparations began immediately to meet the oncoming soldiers at the West wall, the furthest point of entry they could feasibly hold with their current numbers. If they couldn't hold that position, they would lose the monastery and, in all likelihood, their lives.

It was not a comforting prospect, and many faces were grim as fortifications were placed, barriers to narrow the field and cut down the space their enemies could maneuver in. Hopefully it would slow the Empire and thin them enough that the Knights and House troops would be able to deal with them evenly. For the most part Sylvain just helped constructing barriers, though he did point out a few spots on a rough map Ingrid had made during a recon flight, suggesting places they might leave open to funnel enemies towards strike groups.

Time seemed to move too quickly, and the Imperial force was at their doorstep all too soon.

Atop his horse at the foot of the great staircase that began the path up to the monastery proper, Sylvain searched out across their own lines, knowing the formations Byleth had ordered but still wanting to fix his friends in his mind.

Ingrid he found easily—she wheeled above with the other fliers, Seteth close by to command their air troops, his wyvern a dark blot among the pale wings and flanks of the pegasi.

Ahead of him at the spearhead of their force was Byleth, by Dimitri, a shimmer of white and gold in the cape they wore for battle. Sylvain had teased a bit once, right before the war, about it being awfully flashy for a battlefield, especially compared to the professor's usual dark attire. Byleth had actually blushed a bit and frowned, and said it was meant to inspire—to draw the enemy's attention to Byleth, standing out like a beacon on the field, and look dashing while doing it.

Byleth definitely looked dashing today, and Sylvain thought their whole tiny, struggling army could definitely use some inspiration.

Dimitri certainly wasn't providing it; he stood like a grim statue beside Byleth's hopeful beacon and stared out on the field, and Sylvain could imagine the dead-eyed look on his face. He was glad he couldn't see it, because it stung every time he did.

As they had worked to prepare for the coming attack, Dimitri had lent his strength in constructing and moving barricades, until Byleth and Gilbert had pulled him off for some other task. When he wasn't working like a draft horse, Dimitri was at his usual spot in the cathedral, staring into the rubble.

It had bothered Sylvain, that Dimitri wasn't helping plan out their battle strategy—he was their _Prince_. People were resting the hope of their country's future on him, and he wasn't even _trying_ to lead.

But Sylvain knew why, and it was obvious as they stood with the Imperial force marching up to their position—Dimitri was like a weapon now, a tool to be directed. He had no goal in this fight but to win, to put the nuisance behind him so he could focus once more on Edelgard, and he would let Byleth command him like they were loosing an arrow from a bow: go there, kill that one. A weapon didn't lead the hand wielding it.

And there, beside Dimitri, was Felix. Sylvain wasn't happy about his placement, but he understood—Byleth might direct Dimitri, but someone had to be there to watch his back, to fill the gaps in his defense that he didn't seem to give a damn about these days. Felix was death itself with a blade, and Sylvain didn't doubt him, but he worried about the kind of trouble Dimitri could blunder them into with just one reckless charge.

Sylvain could have done it himself, watched Dimitri's back and let Felix command, but they both knew Byleth had placed them perfectly. Felix was faster and could keep up better than Sylvain could on a horse in the maze they had made of the battlefield, and it was no secret that Sylvain was a better commander—he didn't try to do everything himself, protect everyone with his own hands, and that made him better at planning and directing a formation.

So here Sylvain was, heading a battalion with Ashe, another battalion lead by Leonie and Annette beside them, holding the line. Leonie's archers would defend against enemy fliers trying to breach the monastery, while Sylvain and Ashe would follow Byleth's charge, cleaning up anyone who didn't fall under their old professor's blade. They would push the enemy as far back as they could, small formations of Knights coming up behind them to hold what ground they gained.

Off to the left of his current position, there was a huge breach in the monastery's protective wall that had happened at the start of the war and couldn't possibly be fixed in time. This was where Sylvain's proposed funnel was, with enough open ground and the tempting breach as bait to lead prey to the strike force headed by Ferdinand. Caspar and Mercedes would hold position at the breach and sweep up anyone lucky enough to make it past Ferdinand's very thorough eye.

Finally, behind him at the rear of their force were Marianne, Linhardt, and Flayn, with orders to stay off of the front lines and focus on healing—it was a given that the Imperial force would outnumber them, that the fighting would be fierce, and that they could not afford even light losses.

So there were all his friends, the ones he loved like family and the ones he was coming to love still.

And there, across the barricades they had built, at the other end of the long tree-dotted expanse of land scattered with ruins, was the enemy. They were flying Imperial colors and a Bergliez banner, and Sylvain had a moment's pity for Caspar before the sheer numbers of the enemy force had him sweating—they had prepared a plan for this, but it wasn't one Sylvain liked. A fire attack could easily backfire—ha ha—on their army in so many ways, but...Sylvain trusted Byleth's judgement.

As the enemy general gave the command to attack and the Imperials began to advance, Sylvain tightened his grip on his lance and awaited Byleth's command.

+

After the battle, all of his friends exhausted but accounted for, Sylvain caught up with Felix and Ingrid in the garden behind the mess hall, the last bit of the day's sunset light choking under the battle-smoke.

Ingrid was windswept, strands of her hair loose from her usual neat style, but other than a single splash of blood across one armored calf she could have just come from a pleasure flight. Felix was a patchwork of enemy blood, with one single thin cut along his cheek that Sylvain's hands itched to heal. He didn't try, though, knowing Felix would swat him away with a growl.

Sylvain himself was bloody from the knee down, elbow to wrist, and his hair was a mess of sweat and blood where he had tried to sweep it back with his hands. He needed a bath, and to eat, and to sleep, but right now he was still too shaken by what had transpired with Randolph.

“What in the_ fuck_ was _that_?” he asked, his voice ringing through the garden, and his hands shook and Felix saw but Sylvain did not care—it was Ingrid who took his hands to steady her own, her face darkly troubled.

“He's changed so much,” she whispered, and Felix snorted angrily.

“He hasn't changed at all, he's just not hiding under a veneer of humanity anymore,” and it was hot and angry but also wounded—they would be the only ones who would hear it, though. When Ingrid glared at him, he glared back. “That thing hasn't been Dimitri since Duscur, and you know it. Whatever came back from that was _not_ our friend.” With that he pushed himself from the wall he'd been leaning on and stormed off, and Sylvain was left to put an arm around Ingrid's shoulders. They stood in frightened silence for a long time, clinging to each other, while Sylvain wondered if they might be even worse off now than when Dimitri was gone and they were watching their country end slowly.

“I don't know how to help him,” Ingrid finally said, low and distressed, and Sylvain rubbed her arm. “I want to be his knight, but I don't know... I can't imagine Dimitri wanting to be blindly followed, not into._ This_.”

“Then we don't follow him blindly, Ingrid, but we have to... it's _Dimitri_, we have to support him.” Ingrid had been grieving herself after Duscur, heartbroken over Glenn, and she hadn't seen just how awful and ghostly Dimitri had been at first. Sylvain and Felix had, and it had been terrifying—bright, kind, warm Dimitri turned into a pale and weeping shell, until he wept no longer, which was somehow worse.

Sylvain hadn't known how to bring him back, had only been able to wait and hope and try, as best he could, to be there for Dimitri. And eventually something like his friend had resurfaced, quieter but still warm and kind, and Sylvain had been relieved.

He didn't know how to bring Dimitri back again, but he would try his best to be there and pray that that warm and kind boy was still somewhere inside.

Ashe poked his head out of the mess hall, then, asking if they were hungry. Sylvain shook his head even though he was starving, and gently pushed Ingrid towards the doorway. “I'm gonna hurl if I eat anything before I take a bath.” Ingrid made a face at that, and Sylvain watched her go, Ashe giving him a little wave before they both disappeared through the doorway.

Then, he went to find Felix.

Sylvain found him where he expected, leaning against a shadowed pillar in the ruined cathedral, standing his constant vigil over Dimitri. It comforted some people to see him there, thinking he stood watch against Dimitri finally snapping and turning against them. That might be so, in part, but Sylvain thought Felix was also watching over Dimitri, trying to find some shred of the young prince within this haunted, bloodthirsty man.

Sylvain stood beside Felix in silence for some time, before Felix opened his mouth, hesitated. Sylvain turned to look at him, but Felix kept his eyes on Dimitri, his hand a steady weight on the hilt of one of his swords.

“He talks to himself almost constantly, but not to... he talks to his father. And Lady Patricia. Once or twice—“ Felix stopped, and Sylvain waited patiently, the only sounds their breath and the creak of Felix's hand fisting on his hilt and the low murmur of Dimitri, unaware of them watching as he conversed with no one living. “I heard him speaking to Glenn.”

Felix's eyes didn't leave Dimitri's back, but Sylvain put a hand on his shoulder, tense under his touch but relaxing just a fraction at the offered comfort.

“He never came back from Duscur,” Felix said, soft, so quiet in the still dark. “Not really.” Sylvain sighed, long and sad, felt like his lungs were pressed by sadness until there was no room for air left.

“No, he didn't. But he's still Dimitri.” Felix looked so tired for a moment there in the shadow, so _sad_, that Sylvain had to take his hand back because it would be too easy to reach from Felix's shoulder to his face, brush a thumb across the tired bags under his eyes.

“You should clean up and get some rest, Felix. He's not going anywhere, we both know it, and it's not like he'll miss us. If you run yourself into the ground, who's going to tell us what fools we're all being?” Felix scoffed, but it was a warmer, friendlier scoff than usual, like something nearly playful.

“I think I could call _you_ a fool even in my sleep,” he said, and Sylvain _wished_ he could see that. “I won't stay here all night, so don't worry about me; you've been even busier.” Felix finally turned and looked at him, head tilted a bit, eyes roving across his bloody armor and mussed hair. “That will scar,” he said, and Sylvain jumped as Felix reached up to his forehead, a glowing thumb pressing to a cut Sylvain hadn't even realized he had.

“Ladies love scars,” he said reflexively, even as he brushed his own fingers quick across Felix's cheek to erase the cut that still sat there, and Felix rolled his eyes.

“I hope you drown in the bath, Sylvain,” but it was fond, as was the shove on his shoulder. “Really, I can look after myself. You should take your own advice.” Sylvain knew a dismissal when he heard one, and he nodded.

“You better look better when I see you in the morning,” he said over his shoulder, and then went to grab his things and bathe because he really would vomit if he tried to eat anything while he was covered in blood.

+

They were still cleaning up after the battle when the messenger arrived from Rodrigue, promising reinforcements if they could meet in Ailell. It was agreed that they would go, as they desperately needed more men and it was unlikely they would meet any opposition in the Valley of Torment.

Their leadership was split upon what to do with those reinforcements.

Dimitri, of course, believed they should immediately turn towards Enbarr, reasoning that with Edelgard dead the war would essentially be won. There were some who agreed with that, and further that Lady Rhea might be found in Enbarr. When Byleth agreed with those who protested that liberating Fhirdiad should be their first goal, Dimitri was quick to remind them they lead the Church now, and Sylvain had not seen Byleth look so distressed in a long time.

Either way, they needed the reinforcements before any action could be taken, and preparations began for the march to Ailell.

Sylvain was...less than enthused. He was not built for hot weather, had found himself sweating uncomfortably even in the milder summer months of their Academy days, and the prospect of _molten lava_ and _plumes of fire_ sounded like Sylvain's idea of a Bad Time. Felix was also not exactly happy about seeing his father, though he was happy to get reinforcements, and he let Sylvain complain about the heat without too much scolding. In return, Felix was able to mutter about Rodrigue without judgement.

The journey to Ailell went without incident, and Felix and Sylvain were still grumbling to each other as they waited at the rendezvous point. Sylvain had gone a bit hoarse and panting with the heat, his hair thick with sweat, while somehow Felix managed to seem unaffected other than the beads of sweat that trickled down his forehead or the side of his neck into his collar. The bastard was wearing as much fur and more layers than Sylvain, and he had the nerve to stand there looking more delicious than distressed while he bitched about Rodrigue.

And then Mercedes said she was hallucinating, and as worrying as that was, Sylvain wished it was true when they looked up and saw the soldiers massed on the ridge, under the banner of House Rowe. Gilbert muttered of a spy, and Sylvain knew they had all been too careless in discussing their plans. Gilbert recognized the standard of Gwendal, the Grey Lion, and Byleth's face set in grim lines as they turned and began issuing orders.

Stick together, cut towards the enemy commander, hold out until Rodrigue and their promised reinforcements could arrive to back them up, and don't catch fire or step in lava.

Sylvain just hoped Rodrigue would arrive quickly, so they could get out of this hellscape.

+

The battlefield had been as close to literal hell as possible—terrible visibility from the rippling air over the open magma pits, the steam and the smoke venting from hot craters underfoot, the oppressive heat making each panting breath a dry, burning struggle, even as Sylvain swam in whatever sweat didn't evaporate from his skin. His memory of the battle itself was hazy—the heat had made him sluggish, almost weak, and if he wasn’t a damned good cavalier he probably would have made a fatal slip-up; his training and reflexes had carried him through. Still, here he was, lying in a bed in the Garreg Mach infirmary and staring at an all too familiar ceiling.

It hadn’t even been his own slip-up that landed him here, and he could take some comfort in that fact at least.

The bow knight had come out of fucking nowhere, leaping a crater in a shimmer of heat haze and steam, and Byleth had been locked sword to sword with another foe. Sylvain saw, with a sudden intense _clarity_, that Byleth would never be able to dodge or counter in time even if they saw the bow knight, which they did _not_.

Sylvain had been, most likely, about to watch Byleth die.

That wasn’t acceptable to Sylvain, no matter how much he might envy them their childhood free of the pressures he had suffered because of a Crest. Byleth was luckier than Sylvain in that aspect, but it hadn’t made them the kind of person he was comfortable allowing to die. So, naturally, he didn’t.

One moment he was seeing the bow knight bearing down on Byleth, knocking an arrow and aiming, and the next moment he was charging into the way. The first arrow glanced off of his armor; the second one, _actually_ aimed at him, punched into his thigh and scraped bone in a way that made Sylvain’s teeth clench and his vision go white for a second. By then Byleth had dispatched their own foe, and had turned and hit the bow knight with a Thunder.

Sylvain had smelled ozone and thought of Felix, he loved that fucking spell and—and Byleth was holding him up from falling out of his saddle, calling his name in worry as he was slipping into shock. Something jostled his leg, and a stab of pain shot up to his head and he'd clung to his reins and come back to himself enough to do as Byleth instructed and retreat to their healers.

After that he had allowed himself to succumb to his weariness from the heat and the pain and the blood loss, and the next thing he had known they were halfway back to Garreg Mach and he was riding in the Wounded Wagon. Ashe had been beside him, his head bandaged up but looking well enough and sleeping, and Sylvain had gone back to sleep as well—he'd saved Byleth's life, he figured he fucking earned it.

So, now he was getting reacquainted with the view of the infirmary ceiling. Manuela had told him, when he had woken briefly earlier, that the arrow had chipped the bone and he was going to be in bed a few days over extended healings. He felt like a wrung-out rag, his body exhausted from the strain of the kind of large scale healing that was mending bone, so much harder than fixing flesh. Definitely above his or Felix's skill, and he blinked up at the ceiling blearily for a moment, wondering what had made him think of Felix.

Probably the soft murmur by the bed next to his, separated by a curtain for a semblance of privacy, and he turned his head towards the sound.

“It's just 'til the morning, she said, as a precaution,” in Ashe's voice, quiet, and there was a little sigh Sylvain thought was Felix's.

“Good, Ingrid was insufferable. You'd think you had your head chopped off, the way she carried on.”

“And you weren't worried at all,” and Sylvain could _hear_ Ashe's smile.

“Of course I was, but I wasn't being annoying about it.” Sylvain could just imagine it—Ingrid quietly worried, stern-eyed and wringing her hands, while Felix was probably an unholy terror of snappish rage. There was a moment of silence before Felix continued, quiet but almost heavy. “Ashe, I know there's talk of spies, and with the soldiers we fought being from House Rowe—“

“_Felix_, I would _never_!” He sounded appalled and devastated, and Felix made a small noise, something frustrated.

“I _know_, that's not what I'm _saying_! I'm trying to... we _all_ know you would never betray the Kingdom, you're too good for that. I'm saying, there are some people who won't know you, who might accuse you because of your past connection. If that happens, let me know. I will _set them straight myself_.” His tone made it obvious that his sword would be involved in the explanation of Ashe's innocence, and Sylvain listened with a little cold coil of jealousy forming in his stomach. There was something protective in Felix's tone, and it reminded Sylvain of when they were very young, when Felix was still a little crybaby who whined to Sylvain when Dimitri did anything without him or Glenn beat him again in a match.

Even then, smaller and weaker than Sylvain, he used to sound like that _for_ Sylvain whenever Miklan was...being Miklan.

That was forever ago, though—long gone.

“Thanks, Felix.” It was a little watery, and, “Ugh, don't tell Ingrid I cried. It's the concussion.”

“Sure,” softer, warm. Sylvain burned, hated himself for being jealous of that kindness, because Seiros knew Ashe deserved it and more. He turned his face away, glared at the opposite wall, curled his hands into fists so his short nails pressed into the calluses of his palms. Felix sighed, and Sylvain heard him moving around. “I'll let you get some rest. I can only avoid my father for so long, anyways,” he added bitterly, “and Sylvain's not awake to be my excuse.”

Sylvain bit his lip as Ashe and Felix exchanged goodnights, and by the time Felix's footsteps moved around to his side of the room and he heard Felix move the curtain to peek in on him, Sylvain was pretending to be asleep. He did not think it would be a good idea to see Felix now, tired as he was, on the heels of such burning self-disgust. There was the softest sigh from where Felix was, and a bare whisper, “Sleep well.”

Sylvain let the exhaustion take him as he followed the sound of Felix's retreating feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I am slowly getting there! The Sylvix grows! As always, thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@AceMorningStar](https://twitter.com/AceMorningStar)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of that canon-typical violence in this chapter

Sylvain spent his second day in bed feeling a little sore but otherwise fine, if a bit restless. Felix had come and spent a few hours with him, mostly hiding out from his father, but they went over their recollections of Ailell and Felix filled him in on everything that had happened since with Dimitri and Rodrigue joining them.

It was decided while Sylvain was sleeping off his second healing spell that they would pursue Enbarr. Sylvain didn’t like it, but he knew there wasn’t a ‘correct’ choice here. He would prefer the supplies and reinforcements they could secure by taking back Fhirdiad, but ending the war by cutting it off at the head—literally—was also a valid plan. That was all he wanted, anyways, a _plan_, a concrete idea that said they weren't just haring off on Dimitri's whim.

If there was a plan beyond capturing Myrddin and heading to Enbarr, he hadn't heard it yet.

In any case, some small part of their supply woes were lessened by the rations Rodrigue's men brought, but Sylvain worried about that, too. Felix complained that they were still short of men, and that his father ought to go back to their lands before Cornelia ate his uncle and their holdings alive and marched Imperial troops up their asses on the way to Enbarr. Sylvain privately thought Felix's uncle was a poor soldier but a shrewd strategist, and Rodrigue was right to trust him to hold out. He _kept _that thought private, because he knew Felix felt the same, and was most likely just upset about his father joining their headlong charge into Imperial jaws.

What _Sylvain_ worried about were the extra mouths on their already meager supplies, because those added rations wouldn't last long when spread across their combined force. Weapon upkeep and medical supplies would become a worry as well, eventually, if they couldn't get their hands on a more reliable supply base.

Still, morale was up, and that might be the most important thing.

Felix might be unhappy with his father's presence, but most of their allies and soldiers were glad to have the Shield of Faerghus with them. Rodrigue was a capable commander, and he knew how to endear himself to his troops and gain their respect and admiration—even better, he did it naturally, without any artifice, and Sylvain wished Rodrigue was as good at talking to his son.

On the third morning, when he was gritting his teeth over what Manuela promised was the last healing spell, sitting propped up on the bed feeling weak but alert, Rodrigue came to the infirmary. Sylvain blinked at him in surprise but gave a tired smile.

“If you're looking for Felix, he won't come hide out here until noon at least, but I'm almost clear for duty so don't tell him I told you—I can't take another night in this bed.”

“Thank you, Sylvain,” he said with his own tired smile, “but I wasn't looking for Felix. I came to speak with you, actually.” Sylvain felt his face freeze up for a second, before he slipped on an appropriately polite, if confused, smile.

“What can I help you with, Lord Rodrigue?” He watched carefully as Rodrigue moved into the room, and he noted that the man looked tired, unguarded, more like his friend's father than the Shield of Faerghus or Duke Fraldarius. There was something odd about it Sylvain couldn't quite place.

“There's no need to be so formal, Sylvain,” he said. “You grew up with my sons.” Oh. Sylvain saw it—Rodrigue looked a bit like he had after Duscur, after Glenn had died and Dimitri had broken and something between Rodrigue and Felix had snapped. Dimitri's new descent must have hurt him, too, Sylvain figured. “You said you're nearly clear for duty? How is your injury?”

“Completely healed as of this morning, according to Manuela. She's just making me stay for observation.”

“That's good to hear, I know Ingrid and Felix were worried.” Sylvain prickled a bit at that; Rodrigue's concern for his condition was genuine, but Sylvain was good at sniffing out when someone wanted something from him, and he could feel Rodrigue working around to asking him a favor. He figured he would save them both the awkward dancing around.

“Thanks for your concern, but,” and he softened it with a smile, “I can't help feeling you need a favor.” Rodrigue blinked at him and then smiled a bit ruefully.

“I forget sometimes you were always terribly observant.” That gave Sylvain pause—he hadn't thought Rodrigue ever paid that much attention to him, not when Glenn was alive, and certainly not after with Felix and Dimitri around, the way they were then. He wondered if Rodrigue had talked to his old man, but his father had either completely missed or outright ignored how Miklan had treated him for years, so how much fucking attention could _he_ have paid to Sylvain? He was startled from that thought when Rodrigue continued. “I was hoping we might speak about Felix.” If anything, Sylvain's smile went even more polite.

“Oh?” What the fuck. Rodrigue was observant, too, at least as far as tactics went, but _shit_ he was good at reading people, so it _was_ possible? He had known Sylvain his whole damn life, after all, was friends with his father, Sylvain and Miklan had played with Glenn before Felix was born, it was _possible_. Unlikely, but. Rodrigue seemed to watch him for a moment, and Sylvain ignored the urge to squirm and didn't say anything else.

“My relationship with Felix is strained, at best,” he said finally, “as I know you're aware. I'm...concerned, about how he is doing, but it's impossible to ask him myself. He avoids me when possible, and I don't expect he would answer truthfully if I were to ask.” Sylvain relaxed by fractions, the absolutely absurd anxiety that Rodrigue _knew_ how he felt about Felix leaving him, replaced by disappointment at this whole damn situation. “I thought...perhaps you could give me some insight.” Rodrigue sounded as tired as he looked, and Sylvain just wanted to tell him that he had to be as stubborn as Felix, that Rodrigue gave up too easily. Felix wouldn't listen if you didn't persist.

But he knew it would only get worse before it got better, Felix getting angrier and angrier until he popped and then _maybe_ Rodrigue could get through to him, but they didn't have time for that during a war. They couldn't afford low morale, and they definitely couldn't afford to distract each other that way.

“Felix is...Felix,” Sylvain said with a sigh, looking away. “This whole thing with His Highness is rough on him, but it's been rough on him for years, and he won't crack under it now.” He saw Rodrigue nod from the corner of his eye.

“I worried; His Highness is much changed, and I know Felix has always loved him dearly. It has been...difficult, since Duscur, to witness his reactions to His Highness's changes.” And Sylvain knew that was true, because while Felix was his best friend in the world, no one was ever closer to Felix than Dimitri had been. Sylvain may have been jealous if he hadn't loved them both, and if it hadn't been so damned painful watching them break apart. But...

“Felix is strong. He always has been, even when he was a crybaby.” Maybe he was even stronger, then, because he hadn't yet learned not to ask for help, didn't bottle up every hurt. “He'll be alright. And he's got me and Ingrid, at least, whether he likes it or not.” Rodrigue smiled, and some of the weariness lifted.

“That is a comfort, if you believe it. Ingrid has always had a level head, and you've always looked out for the three of them.” That startled Sylvain out of his polite smile, so used to being blamed for getting the others into some mess, or people eating up his unreliable clown act. “I know it's a burden in a time of war, but if you would continue to watch out for Felix, and the others, it would put me more at ease.”

“Of course,” he answered immediately, bewildered. He would watch over them until he was dead, request or no. That was what Sylvain _did_.

“And, perhaps, one last request—take care of yourself as well, Sylvain. Felix and Ingrid were truly distressed, and you would be a great loss to us all.” Rodrigue was quiet but earnest, and as Sylvain felt a wave of warm surprise wash through him he knew what it must feel like to be one of those soldiers Rodrigue was inspiring. He laughed and put up his hands.

“Whoa, Rodrigue, no need to get so sentimental on me! I'm looking out for myself, trust me—no intentions of dying _any_ time soon.” That was true, he wasn't trying to throw his life away. It was never fully _intentional_ when he got in the way of attacks that would otherwise cause great harm to his loved ones. Sylvain just...moved. Rodrigue sighed.

“That is good to hear. In any case, thank you, Sylvain, for reassuring an old man.”

“You're hardly old,” he said, and this time his smile was more fond, because really... Rodrigue _loved_ Felix, he just had no idea how to be his father. Felix didn't exactly make it easy, either. “But it's no problem.”

“I'll leave you to your rest, then,” he said, and Sylvain gave him a little wave as he turned and left. Sylvain sat back again and thought about that, wished that Rodrigue could tell Felix to take care of himself, that he was worried about him. He scrubbed a hand over his face—maybe when the war was over and there was time, it was something he could talk to Felix about.

For now he would just keep an eye on Felix as usual, and be there to help shoulder the weight of it all whether Felix asked him to or not.

+

That same day Sylvain patched things over with Byleth as a result of his injury; more comfortable with each other, Sylvain took up extra work alongside Byleth and Ferdinand with strategy and planning. That allowed Ferdinand a bit of space which he sorely needed, seeming distracted by their impending push into the Empire and determined to not _be_ distracted about it. Linhardt seemed unaffected as usual, and Caspar seemed to be succeeding where Ferdinand failed in not thinking about it.

It made Sylvain wonder how he would handle it, if it were Dimitri waging a bloody conquest and Sylvain preparing to storm his homeland with slim chance of winning, and the promise of facing his dearest friends to get there. Or how he might feel, sneaking across his country with the possibility of an old friend crawling up his spine with an army.

He got the chance to see just how Marianne was taking it when he bumped into her at the stables. He had honestly been looking for Ferdinand with a question about supply distribution for one of their mage units, but when Marianne greeted him with a tiny smile he decided to stick around a moment.

“That,” he said, stopping to let Dorte sniff his palm as Marianne combed his mane, “was a lovely smile. You've been practicing, huh?” He was surprised to be gifted with another smile, a little bit bigger and brighter this time. Before the war, he might have pushed it—_maybe_, Marianne had been something of an exception even then, she was like him somehow and it felt wrong to be cruel to _her_—but he has curbed himself lately. It was one thing to have every girl around you loathing you during peacetime, but he couldn't afford to piss off his allies during a war, self-loathing or no; he could get someone _else_ killed like that.

“Well,” she said, “I've had a lot of time to.” She went back to combing out Dorte's mane, sectioning it for braids. “Have...have we heard back from Claude, yet?” Marianne didn't look up, but her shoulders were tense, and Sylvain crossed his arms.

“Not yet, but, with the distance that's normal. We don't expect to hear back for maybe two more days—but I'm sure we _will _hear back.” Sylvain knew Claude must be having a hell of a time of it, keeping the Alliance from turning in on itself like a pack of dogs, but he was confident that he would see the value in helping them. If they could pull off Dimitri's pursuit of Edelgard, it would be one weight off of Claude's shoulders. And if they really were just following Dimitri into one big idiotic mass suicide, like Felix kept grumbling, it would at least provide a temporary distraction to get the Empire off Claude's back for a bit. Either way, Claude got _some_ benefit.

“I'm sure, too,” she said quietly as she began to braid, and Sylvain heard the sincerity in her voice. Something else was bothering her; she would know better than him how long it would take to hear back from Derdriu, her own lands were even further away. He uncrossed one arm and lifted the hand to grip the side of his neck, watching her work.

“Hey, Marianne, what're you worried about?” She looked up at him, blinking. “I mean, of course, besides the obvious war raging across our continent. Anything I can help with, put to rest?” Marianne looked down at her hands, frozen mid-braid, and then looked back up at him with a little twist of her mouth. “Even if it's nothing I can fix, sometimes it's nice to share a problem,” he added. “Your knight is all ears, my maiden.” There was the tiniest quirk of her lips at the old phrase; he had abandoned the flirtation years ago as quickly as he had started it, but he had never stopped reminding her that he was available if she needed someone to solve a problem or lend a shoulder. Marianne sighed and dropped her hands from the braid to press them against Dorte's side.

“I'm... worried about fighting our friends. I just... hope Claude can keep him busy,” and her voice was low and sad and Sylvain remembered suddenly that Marianne ate a lot of her meals with Lorenz near the end of their school year. He didn't _know_ Marianne all that well, really, but it was obvious from how sweet she was with the horses and how soft and hesitant her smiles could be that she was a gentle person, one who shouldn't be in a war. He wondered, not for the first time, just why she had come back to Garreg Mach; he didn't ask, though. Instead, he smiled for her, as reassuring as he could.

“Well, we all know Claude's good at that. I won't say 'don't worry', because, well, it's a war. But none of us want to fight our old friends, and I think Claude would want to keep Lorenz out of it as much as you do.” She searched his face for a moment.

“Thank you, Sylvain. It's kind of you to comfort me.” He laughed, hands behind his head.

“Careful there, you'll ruin my reputation.” But then he softened. “We're friends, and more, we're comrades in this war. I'd hate for anything to happen to you because you were troubled and I didn't help; there are a lot of people here who would be upset. You can talk to us when you're worried, you know.” Her head dipped forward so that he couldn't see her face, but he thought she might be a little pink. “Is there anything else I can help with?”

She looked up again, and this time her smile was something radiantly blinding as she shook her head. “No, but thank you. It's... I know that I have friends, but it's nice to be reminded.” He managed to regain his composure and nodded.

“Any time, I mean it. I'll let you get back to Dorte, don't want him to get jealous,” he said with a little laugh, and she waved him off on his way to find Ferdinand.

Sylvain knew she wasn't a complete innocent, all of them had been to battle before, but she was soft and kind and she was blooming slow into a truly rare and beautiful flower, if he wanted to wax poetic. She shouldn't be here, where that flower would be trampled under marching boots and hooves into the gory mud.

It wasn't anything Sylvain could control, though; nothing he could do but try to watch out for her, just as he tried to watch out for the others.

And if he sat that night at his desk, staring unseeing at a report on rainfall estimates in the Myrddin area, thinking instead about how there were so many people he cared about that this war would inevitably touch and twist and hurt, no one was around to see him doing it.

+

Sylvain had been right and wrong about Claude.

He was right that Claude would see a benefit in helping them, and when they had received his response in the affirmative they had begun planning in earnest. The most difficult thing would be traveling through the vast pastures of Gloucester without detection. It wasn't exactly easy to hide an army marching through flat, open pasture, but Leonie had smiled a little sly and drawn out routes on a map for their forces to take, separated and disguised as mercenaries or merchant caravans.

“It'll be heavy traffic, and it will look a little weird to some people, but not as weird and obvious as an army.” Byleth had agreed, and they had divided out their troops and done what they could to disguise them, hiding emblems and dirtying their gear to look worn and mercenary rather than regimented.

The journey to Myrddin wore on the nerves, but was largely uneventful, and Sylvain sent up a thanks to the Goddess for that spot of mercy.

Storming the bridge was another thing altogether. Of course it was more a fortress spread across a river than a simple bridge, and the Adrestians had fully manned it. Their scout could only give an estimate of numbers, and they prepared strategies based on what they knew of the layout of the bridge from former visits and possible generals they might encounter.

Before they stormed the bridge, Sylvain was going to deliver the report that his troops were ready, but he caught the tail end of what seemed to be another argument between Felix and his father just in time to see Felix stalking off towards his own group of soldiers. Sylvain looked towards Byleth, caught their eye and flashed a thumbs up, and then ran after Felix.

“Felix, wait,” he called, and Felix didn't slow but he did stop when Sylvain caught up to him, laid a quick hand on his shoulder. Felix pinched the bridge of his nose for a second and exhaled. “Tell me about it—you can't go out there pissed.”

“I'm more effective pissed,” Felix retorted, but he rolled his shoulders irritably and exhaled sharp out of his nose. “I am sick of those blind old men clinging to the ideal of a crown instead of _looking_ at the beast wearing it, blindly following it and just accepting when their absolutely feeble reprimands are ineffectual. What's more important,” he asked, turning his head just enough to look at Sylvain, “the crown or the people it's meant to lead? If the place it leads is a grave?” He searched Sylvain's face a moment and seemed to find what he wanted there, turning back to look towards their troops, forming up to take the bridge. “The boar's petty vengeance is going to get our whole country killed and he won't even care. Some _prince_ we're following,” he muttered, low and bitter, and Sylvain ached.

He agreed with Felix, and he wished that he didn’t—that he thought Dimitri was going to lead them to the end of a victorious war. But… Felix hadn’t left yet, hadn’t given up on Dimitri, even if he snarled that their prince was dead and the beast wearing his face would have them soon follow. Felix hadn’t left yet. Sylvain didn't know if it was hope, loyalty, or love, or maybe some mixture, or none at all. But Felix was still here, still fighting. Sylvain put a hand on his shoulder, and Felix didn't shrug it off.

“We won't let him.” He didn't know how the hell they would stop him, but they would. Felix looked up at him, saw the absolute conviction in his face, and the knowledge that Sylvain had no idea how they would prevent it. Felix's brow furrowed for a second, and then he shook his head as a little smile crossed his mouth, something amused and wondering.

“Idiot,” he said, and Sylvain shrugged, smiling a little self-deprecatingly. Sure, he was an idiot, because it was probably impossible to stop Dimitri from leading them to destruction, but he would stick around and try his damnedest as long as Felix was here, because he loved him and, idiotically, trusted his judgement. Perhaps some of that fondness showed through, because Felix cut his eyes away suddenly. Sylvain held back a sigh and pulled his hand back from Felix's shoulder, looking off towards where his own battalion was formed up and waiting.

“Better get back to it, huh? Hey,” he said, and Felix looked back up at him, “be careful?” Felix snorted and rolled his eyes.

“_I'm_ not the one who wound up in the infirmary, Sylvain—_you_ be careful, fool.” He narrowed his eyes at Sylvain for a moment, and then turned and strode off towards his troops. Sylvain sighed and did the same—he had better get his head together, if he got himself hurt because he was distracted Felix would never let him live it down.

+

The soldiers on the bridge were, thankfully, not ready for them. Still, there were enough of them that it didn't matter, they'd pose a challenge whether they were organized or not. Ferdinand recognized the banner of their general even after five years of being removed from any form of Adrestian power—Ladislava, the head of Edelgard's personal guard. Another banner, unrecognizable, signified a second general, which made it likely Ladislava was only there temporarily.

Why the head of the Emperor's personal guard was there without the Emperor, none of them speculated, but it was a disappointment—to have encountered Edelgard here in a surprise attack might have been a blessing, a rare chance to end things quickly.

Of course it couldn't be that easy.

As it was, Dimitri sneered at Ladislava's presence and was already carving a path across the battlefield with Byleth at his side when the war cry rang out to the rear of their troops, loud and _familiar_ enough to halt and turn even Dimitri. His anguished bewilderment was the most _Dimitri_ thing Sylvain had heard out of the prince since their reunion.

Dedue, miraculously, returned to them.

Hell if it wasn't the most hopeful Sylvain had felt this whole damn war, even more than seeing Byleth—Byleth might be holding together their army, but Dedue might be the one person capable of pulling together _Dimitri_. The fact that the man fell into perfect sync with his prince even after five years, even with the change in how Dimitri fought, sang an entire fucking opera of hope into Sylvain's heart.

He needed it, because the fight dragged on and reinforcements just seemed to keep coming—some minor Alliance noble with a contingent of knights swarmed up on their flank, but Ingrid and Annette cleaned him up simple enough. Leonie and Marianne broke away to capture and man a ballista in another section of the bridge, Byleth on their heels as Dimitri and Dedue faced the demonic beast on their way to Ladislava—because of course there was a _demonic beast_ on this _bridge_.

It was the fort-like complex of buildings near the center of the bridge that really presented the biggest problem, pouring forth soldiers who hadn't been on duty in steady intervals. Ashe and Felix, always the most nimble, charged in to capture the entrance and halt the flow of enemy reinforcements from the lower levels of the bridge. Sylvain followed because he was close by, and he was glad for it when he caught an ambush heading for their backs. They cleared and secured the area together, just as the demonic beast was felled.

Things went swiftly after that, everything narrowed down to the ache in Sylvain's arms from swinging his lance and the movement of his horse beneath him, the feel of fire on his fingertips and the coppery-scent of blood so thick he could taste it. Hell, maybe some of it had actually gotten in his mouth, he didn't remember.

Sylvain had been right and wrong about Claude.

He was wrong in that at some point near the end of the battle, he saw a Gloucester banner—Claude hadn't been able to keep him distracted long enough after all. _Sorry, Marianne_, he thought, and fought on all the harder for his dismay.

But when the battle was won and Sylvain searched for Felix and Ingrid, he found Byleth in quiet counsel with Dimitri while Lorenz sat leaning up against one of the fortress walls, Leonie standing sentinel beside him while Marianne knelt at his side, seemingly working a healing. She kept glancing to Dimitri with a look that was like a cornered animal—one that was leaning more towards fight than flight. Leonie's stance was taut and ready, and Lorenz simply looked resigned.

They were waiting for Dimitri to treat Lorenz as he had treated Randolph, Sylvain realized, stomach rolling, and worse they were preparing to defend him.

Whatever Byleth said, it must have worked—Dimitri spat something Sylvain did not hear and made a dismissive gesture, turning away to focus on Dedue instead. Marianne sagged with relief, and Lorenz took one of her hands in his own, patting it comfortingly. Leonie's stance relaxed, but she didn't move from her position beside them like a guardian.

Ingrid found Sylvain then, and together they confirmed the rest of their friends had come through with no great injuries. Annette had twisted an ankle dodging an axe, but with a little healing she should be well enough to travel by the next day—their entire force would stay for the night while Byleth, Rodrigue, and Gilbert assigned troops to hold the fort. The core of their leadership would return to Garreg Mach to plan their next steps into Adrestia.

It was, after all, a lot safer to hole up their prince at Garreg Mach than on a bridge they had managed to take with a cobbled together rebel army and a dash of surprise.

By the time they had cleared the inner chambers of the bridge and secured any remaining enemy as prisoners—Byleth's orders, as Dimitri would likely have executed them—and set up space for their wounded, it was dark and Sylvain was one great mass of exhaustion. He barely tasted the trail rations Ingrid had pressed into his hand at some point, eating them absently while he and Ferdinand received reports for Byleth on their supplies and tallied weapons and troop strengths.

It was a testament to how worn out Sylvain was that when Felix came to drag him off to get some sleep, he actually went to the temporary barracks and slept without protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, it fought me quite a bit lmao. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@AceMorningStar](https://twitter.com/AceMorningStar)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of that canon-typical violence incoming as The Gang Goes to Gronder Field

Walking alongside Felix into the town settled around the monastery during a rare lull in war preparations, Sylvain hummed and popped a candy into his mouth.

He had been expecting something sweet, maybe berry from the reddish color, but instead it was something warm and spiced. Cinnamon and cloves, he thought, and something else he couldn't place, and just the tiniest bit of sweetness. It was good, but still surprising enough to make him cough, and Felix looked between him and the bag of candies in mild alarm, as though he suspected poison.

“You might actually like these,” he finally managed, and Felix rolled his eyes.

“I don't like sweet things, you know this.”

“These aren't sweet. They're some kind of spice blend.” He rolled the candy in his mouth thoughtfully. “Yeah, you'd like this. Try one!” He fished one from the bag and held it towards Felix's mouth, then pulled back as Felix made to swat at his hand. “Come on, I almost dropped that.” Felix gave an annoyed little growl and held out a hand, because he knew Sylvain wasn't going to give up, and Sylvain pressed the little red lozenge into his palm.

Felix put it in his mouth almost defiantly, glaring at Sylvain, and he didn't miss the little look of surprise or the disgruntled pleasure that crossed Felix's face before he turned away and focused back on where they were walking.

“I don't hate it,” Felix said, and _Saints_, Sylvain loved him. He'd better kill that thought.

“Wow, this girl must actually like you. Who was it?” he fished, but Felix didn't seem ruffled at all.

“Just some girl, Sylvain; I don't even know her.”

“You don't even know her but she's giving you candy tailored to your tastes? Better watch out, Felix, she might be real serious about you!” Felix rolled his eyes.

“I think I can handle it. You're the only pest I've never been able to get rid of.” He never would, either.

“Oh, hey! You wound me, Felix, truly. And this after I saved your life?” This got the reaction Sylvain wanted, irritation at being reminded he had needed saving, and worse, that Sylvain had been the savior.

“I already thanked you—I gave you the candy, didn't I?”

“Ah, yes, the re-gifted affections of a random woman.”

“_Sylvain_—“

“I'm teasing you, Felix, relax! This girl really went to some trouble for you, though. Was she pretty?”

“What does that have to do with _anything_?” Felix asked, and Sylvain took that as both naive and a 'yes'.

“So,” Sylvain barreled on, “she went out of her way _and_ she's pretty. Want me to help you out?” It made a sick little twist in his stomach to offer, because helping someone else get into Felix's pants was the last thing Sylvain wanted to do. But he would, if Felix ever asked for his help—Felix deserved that, deserved pleasure and intimacy, even if he acted like either thing would kill him. Felix actually stopped in his tracks, giving Sylvain his most incredulous look.

“_Why_ would I ever want romance help from _you_?” Sylvain walked into that one, really. “And I'm _not_ interested, obviously,” he gestured at the bag of candy in Sylvain's hands, “so don't even _start_ trying to meddle.”

“Ok, ok, I will cease questioning about your mystery admirer.” At that Felix resumed walking, not waiting for Sylvain, but it was never difficult to catch up. “I just think it's a shame you spend _all_ your time training! It wouldn't kill you to indulge a little, Felix. Hell, I don't know how you don't snap as it is, you're wound so tight.”

“Not everyone is _you_, Sylvain, unable to go an hour without thinking about women.” Sylvain ignored the jab easily, as a new thought rose instead. Oh, it would be so incredibly, painfully ironic.

“Alright, ok, so you're not thinking about women. Any _men_ I can help you out with?”

“_Sylvain_,” and it was a hiss, and _fuck_ Sylvain had been right, “do you _ever_—what am I even asking, of _course_ you never shut up.” Felix was pink and seething and stalking ahead of him, and Sylvain was a jumble of awful thoughts and emotions. Felix liked men, which was great, because Sylvain was a man! But _also_, terrible, because Sylvain was a man.

It was one thing to be in love with your best friend and tell yourself it was never happening because he was straight; it was an entire other thing to tell yourself it wasn't happening because you were _you_.

Still, he'd known for years now that Felix would never stoop to anything so low as _Sylvain_, that their friendship was all he could hope for, so he shook himself and hurried after Felix, trying to shove the loathing down where Felix wouldn't spot it.

“Come on, Felix, wait up! I'll give it a rest.”

“As if. I don't know why I'm even bothering, you'll just keep bringing up your filth and put me off my meal—“ oh, Sylvain had really struck a nerve, and Felix was letting him have it.

“Felix, I'm _sorry_. Come on, I _swear_ I'll drop it.” Felix rounded on him and crowded into his space, a finger jabbing into the center of his chest as he glared up at Sylvain.

“One licentious fucking peep, one flirtatious wink at a waitress, and I'm going to stab you with a dinner knife and leave you to bleed out.” Sylvain blanked for a second, thinking about the fact that because of the candies he knew exactly how Felix's mouth would taste if he kissed him right now. “_Sylvain—_“ Felix snarled, and that snapped him back. He caught Felix's hand just as he was pulling away, probably to stalk off and rage somewhere over what an ass Sylvain was.

“Ok! Not one little peep or wink for the rest of the day! I promise!” He hooked the pinky of his free hand around Felix's before he let him go, and Felix's brows drew down as he looked at their fingers.

“What are you, nine?” He sounded amused, though, and Sylvain relaxed with a little smile.

“No, _you_ were nine, _I_ was eleven.” Fourteen years since they promised to die together.

“That's even worse, Sylvain.” Felix unlinked their fingers, but he wasn't wound so tight and angry now, relaxing after the gesture. Sylvain had never, _ever_ broken one of his actual promises to Felix, big or small, and he wasn't about to start now over something this trivial.

Sylvain joked and he teased and he riled Felix up, but he didn't flirt once during their whole meal, or the walk back to the monastery, or the sparring match he let Felix inevitably drag him into.

+

Things in the monastery improved, slightly.

Dimitri still did not attend war council or eat his meals in the dining hall, still spent his waking hours in a vigil over the rubble in the cathedral, but Dedue's return had done something to humanize him somewhat. He would speak to the Professor a bit, he ate with little protest when Dedue brought him food, and he started at least spending the night in his old room, whether he actually slept any or not.

Dimitri's slow signs of recovery and Dedue's return to their army greatly improved morale among their friends. Ashe especially was glad to see Dedue alive, and even Felix was glad to see the man hadn't lost his life needlessly.

But that was the attitude among the command staff of their army, composed of the former Blue Lions and their schoolmates who had defected. The general attitude around the monastery was mixed, but Sylvain didn't miss the mutters and even a few outright protests about the sanity of their continued plan to march on Enbarr. The possibility of desertions began to loom, and it was an issue Sylvain couldn't begin to imagine plausible ways to fix.

Rodrigue's continued presence didn't seem to deter the wary murmurs among the troops, but he was a goddess-send for the war effort, as their plans grew in scale and greater experience was needed; Byleth had led troops before, but never on the scale of a war, an _invasion_. Rodrigue had fought alongside King Lambert in Sreng, and had commanded where Gilbert had only been a knight. His advice to Byleth was indispensable, and Sylvain gleaned what he could and kept his insightful questions to a minimum; it was fine if Byleth and Ferdinand knew that Sylvain was a genius contributing often to their battle strategies, but he wasn't comfortable with the whole army finding out.

Besides, if Rodrigue knew, so would his father eventually, and keeping his father in the dark was especially important if he ever wanted any chance of directing his own life. Let his father continue to think of him as a capable, if empty-headed, warrior, and some day Sylvain would have an advantage.

Sylvain focused instead on helping Lorenz to convince his own father to back the Kingdom, further unifying the Alliance and gaining them an upper hand against the Empire through a stronger ally. The convincing he left all to Lorenz, but he acted as his Kingdom liaison, giving him whatever information he might need to craft his case. If he was unsuccessful, they would only have the House Charon reinforcements Catherine had gone to collect, and no real guarantee that they could count the Alliance as allies at all.

It gave him something to do that felt useful, but Sylvain was still antsy. Increasingly, he wished for a definite, concrete plan. Something more than a single objective to face, with no idea of what goal they would strive for after. Even if they managed to kill Edelgard at Gronder, that was hardly a guarantee of an end to the entire war. The Empire forces were still far greater in size, and if Adrestia seized upon a new leader after Edelgard's fall, they would still need to press on to Enbarr. Would they aim to conquer all of Adrestia? Or was Edelgard's head truly enough? When would they turn back towards Fhirdiad? Would they _live_ to?

There were too many questions he couldn't answer, and he needed a distraction. In the past, he would have sweet talked some girl into his bed to work it out of his system, make him mindless for a little while. But morale was so tenuous right now, he _really_ couldn't afford to piss anyone off, and that was always the end result of his trysts; he had engineered them that way, and he didn't know how to go about seducing a woman and tossing her aside _without_ it getting messy. He didn't know how _not_ to toss them aside.

So the next best thing for mindlessness was training, wearing out his body with repetitive motion. Felix and Ingrid might grumble and act like he never trained, but he made time when he needed it, and right now, he _needed_ it.

So he wound up at the training grounds, Felix's narrowed eyes on him as he looked over the rack of practice lances. Sylvain wasn't surprised to find him here, but he hadn't expected him to be with Marianne, working on advanced sword forms with her. It was probable that she had come with the intention of training alone, and Felix hadn't been able to stop himself from correcting her, and Marianne was just too sweet for Felix to _not_ help her improve.

“Why are you here, Sylvain?” Sylvain smiled as he selected a lance—he had been waiting for that.

“Oh, just needed to clear my head.” That earned him a scoff.

“Come spar, then.” Sylvain turned and feigned fear, holding the lance protectively before himself.

“I said _clear_ my head, not have you beat it in.” Felix rolled his eyes and gestured towards Marianne, who was watching them impassively. It wasn't the sort of distraction he had intended to find at the training grounds, but it would do the trick. He couldn't worry about the aimless drift of their war if he was trying not to hurt Marianne.

“Oh, well, that's alright then. Marianne is too nice to bash my brains out with a practice sword.” He winked at both of them, and got opposite but expected reactions—Felix scowled, of course, and Marianne graced him with a tiny, strained smile. “What're we learning?”

“How to kill you,” Felix said, and Sylvain laughed even as Marianne looked distressed. “She's skilled enough against swords and axes, but she needs to improve against lancers.” It was a backhanded compliment, but still high praise coming from Felix, and Sylvain nodded.

“I offer myself up as noble sacrifice, Fair Marianne,” he said with a flourishing bow, and Felix crossed his arms in irritation.

“Show him no mercy, Marianne.” She looked between them, something unreadable but measuring in her expression. “It's fine, just remember what we practiced; Sylvain is nice enough to let you bash his brains out with the practice sword.” This had Sylvain laughing again and Marianne shaking her head with a small smile, but she finally moved to face him in a ready stance.

“Please don't go easy on me, Sylvain; it's vital that I learn this properly,” she said in her soft voice, and the laughter fell away from him as he took up his own stance.

She was right, of course—going easy on her here wouldn't prevent her from dying in their next battle, wouldn't prepare her for the rest of a war that realistically wasn't ending any time soon. This was just one more bit of war preparation, like plotting battles and gathering troops and supplies. He looked to Felix and saw that same understanding there, and the same unease with how things were progressing; helping Marianne was Felix's way of finding something, _anything_ that he could impact for the better.

“Alright, I won't go easy. Better pretend you're Felix and try to kill me.” The tiny smile she gave him as she lunged forward with no warning was hard, and Sylvain was fiercely proud of her even as he felt distantly sad that she was here with a sword in her hand instead of in the stables with her horses.

It was going to be a long few weeks, and he hoped they heard back from Charon and Gloucester and Claude soon with positive news, because Sylvain was starting to realize his _own_ morale was slipping.

+

It was an absolute shitshow once the fighting started, and he had known it would be a brutal mess, three forces meeting with deadly intent, but the chaotic reality of it punched Sylvain in the chest.

He knew what their scouts had discovered that morning before the battle, the mangled corpse of a knight sent to the Alliance, but he didn't believe for a second that it was done on Claude's word, and Lorenz had vehemently protested the same. Sylvain couldn't imagine what gain it would bring Claude to deny an alliance with their forces, and even then it wasn't his style—Claude would've agreed and struck from inside if he really wanted to fight them. He would have found an advantage and used it. This was too obvious, too _sloppy_.

So when the Alliance appeared on the field, and no one could tell whether they were allies or foes, Sylvain personally counted them allies. He'd already told the professor that he wanted to be on their lines, that if they had to fight Claude he wanted to be sent in, because he knew next to Byleth there wasn't anyone else in their force who had as good a chance of negotiating with him and could be spared to do it.

“You were close before the war, I remember,” Byleth had said, looking as sad as Byleth ever looked, and Sylvain wished for the millionth time that Byleth wasn't so indispensable, or that the war could be miraculously over. Byleth should be happy somewhere, fishing and lazing around, enjoying their life instead of sending their former students into deadly battlefields—they were all fighting, but Sylvain thought Byleth was struggling the most, and always silently.

The last time Sylvain had been to Gronder Field had been for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion five years ago, and he had just slept with Claude for the first time two weeks before. It had never been anything serious, just a physical comfort and camaraderie, but Sylvain missed him and this was not how he had ever pictured a reunion...

“Yeah, we were. I really don't think he wants to fight,” and Sylvain didn't add _because he would never want to fight _you, but it was there in the air and he knew Byleth felt it. “If the Empire is trying to trick us with mangled messengers, they're probably doing the same on the Alliance side. But he'll listen, if I can get to him to talk.” He'd never been able to hide a lie from Claude, after all, so he would believe him.

Byleth had agreed, so when Alliance troops began to reluctantly engage with both Imperial and Kingdom soldiers, Sylvain looked across the field to Byleth, flanking Dimitri with Dedue as they cut their way to the demonic beast on the field, and he turned his horse towards the Alliance.

He broke through the line with his charge, because no one seemed to be expecting a lone rider to slam through their forces—it was slow but they gathered themselves right enough and attacked, and he parried with his lance, slamming soldiers away with the butt as his warhorse charged through, scattering even more of them. Before the battle he'd looked at maps of Gronder Field with Byleth, and they had pointed out where they thought Claude might position himself—that was where Sylvain was headed now.

Byleth still knew Claude even five years later, and it pained Sylvain just a little when he saw the knot of soldiers around a gold-clad figure on wyvern-back.

“Claude!” he shouted across the battlefield as he continued his charge, and he hoped to hell Claude would hear him over the noise, because he didn't want to hurt anyone more than he had to but he knew Claude's honor-guard weren't just going to let him prance up for a chat. “_Claude_!”

Claude looked up from a soldier he'd been issuing orders to, turned, saw Sylvain—saw the fractured chaos of the broken line behind him, scrambling to reform or attack Sylvain—and he lifted a fist that was so beautiful it could break Sylvain's heart; the soldiers pursuing him stopped, and the honor-guard who had been readying to attack fell still, looking uncertain.

A moment later, closing in with his lance across his lap, non-threatening, he felt a chill of shock run through him as Claude lifted Failnaught, sighted towards him...and then past him, and when Sylvain turned back to look behind it was Felix, following him through the chaos and not careful at all _not_ to leave a trail of dead in his wake. He was too far to reach Sylvain but he was in range enough to cast, and Sylvain could tell from the way he moved that he was already doing it.

“Felix, _no_!” His yell startled Felix, threw him off enough that his Thoron struck a nearby tree into a burst of hot flame instead of hitting Claude. Sylvain glanced back at Claude for a second in terror as he maneuvered his horse without thought to block a clear shot at Felix, lifting his empty hands. “Wait, Claude, wait, he didn't—_shit_, he didn't know I was going to do this.”

Claude lowered the bow, and Sylvain turned his horse and headed back to Felix; no longer cutting his way through the enemy or trying to kill Claude with magic, it didn't take Felix long to meet him. Sylvain extended an arm, meaning to pull Felix onto his horse and return to try and talk Claude into _not _fighting Kingdom forces, but Felix grabbed the arm with both hands and glared up at him.

Felix was furious, but behind it there was a fear that Sylvain felt in the grip on his arm, and his eyes were overbright, gleaming like hot metal. Sylvain realized what it must have looked like, him charging into the enemy all alone, Felix unknowing...

“You stupid, _stupid bastard_—“ Felix hissed, even as he ran a glowing palm across Sylvain's arm, and Sylvain hadn't even realized he'd been injured in his charge until right then. “Just because Riegan was in love with you in school doesn't mean you charge headfirst into enemy lines, you _absolute_ fool!” Goddess, there was _so_ _much_ in that to address, but—

“It was Byleth's plan, we discussed it before the battle, I would have told you but I didn't think you'd _charge_ after me!” Felix had finished healing his arm, and they were on a battlefield in full swing, behind tentatively-enemy lines, and Sylvain had a foreign leader to convince—they didn't have time for this argument, and he gripped Felix's arm with a look. Felix growled, but he let Sylvain pull him up onto the horse, and the second they were back with Claude he slid from the horse and stood like he was Sylvain's own honor-guard.

Sylvain supposed, his heart squeezing, that he was.

“That,” Claude said, leaning forward to lazily pat his wyvern’s neck, bow across his lap, “was pretty ballsy. Reckless, but ballsy.” Sylvain couldn’t help it—he grinned, because even with a firmer face and a beard (_good choice, by the way_, he thought) and the almost kingly presence, Claude was still Claude after all this time.

“Well, I’ve always been ballsy—” Felix snorted almost angrily, “and I’d love to take all the credit, but it was mostly Byleth’s plan.” Claude straightened, expression going unreadable, but Sylvain knew Byleth’s name had to hit him like that missed Thoron. He knew for sure, because:

“Teach, huh?” It was soft, easy to miss if Sylvain hadn’t been expecting it. “So it's not just rumors. What’s Byleth want of me, then?” He was smiling now, but it was one of the old ones, the wary not-in-the-eyes ones.

“We sent knights weeks ago to ask for an alliance, but none of them returned. We found one this morning, on Alliance ground, and it wasn’t pretty. It’s not your style, Claude—”

“You want us to fight Edelgard.”

“Actually, we just want you to _not_ fight _us_. His Highness,” and he had to try not to choke on the title, “has no interest in fighting the Alliance. If you want to join us, _I’m_ not ever gonna turn you down, but honestly none of us want to fight you. It’s pointless bloodshed.”

“And if we lay down blades, your forces will just ignore us?” Claude wasn’t looking at him, but out across Gronder at the battle, assessing the Kingdom troops charging for the Imperial main body and only tentatively engaging scatters of the Alliance force.

“Byleth issued orders before the battle not to engage Alliance troops unless under direct attack—they didn’t think the knight was your style, either. If you’re not attacking, we aren’t retaliating.”

“Then I guess—” he started, but then there was a deafening boom, the skin-tingle feel of massive amounts of magic, and the mound at the center of Gronder Field was ablaze and everything smelled of tinder and _meat_.

“Dimitri,” Felix said, gripping Sylvain’s calf and sounding sick, and almost thoughtless Sylvain reached down to help him up onto his horse. He gave Claude a helpless look, he _couldn’t_ stay here talking when that was his army and his _family_ down there burning—he saw the stricken look on Claude’s face and realized _Byleth is down there too and he _knows_ it now_, then he wheeled his horse and charged towards the thick of the fight.

If Claude followed, Sylvain didn’t know, because the rest of it was blood and soot and sweat in his eyes and tears in the blood, everything flickering gold with firelight and clouded with smoke, Felix fighting just as hard at his side, his blade a red arc and lightning on his fingertips. They didn’t make it to Dimitri, but they found Ingrid with Mercedes, healing burns on Ingrid’s leg. Sylvain could kill Edelgard _himself_ in that moment, watching his beautiful Ingrid bite down on the shaft of her lance, refusing to scream.

He thought it was the most painful thing he would see that day; he was wrong.

Nothing in the last five _years_ had hurt him more than Felix’s face, cold and blank, when they finally reached Dimitri weeping silent and pitiful over Rodrigue’s corpse.

+

Felix was cold and silent all the way back to their base camp, and no one bothered him because Sylvain was at his side looking like murder, and Ingrid was back with the wounded, and Byleth was dealing with Dimitri's wounds and the aftermath of the battle.

Sylvain cleaned them both up as best he could—their clothes and armor would have to wait, and Felix’s hair was crunchy with drying blood from one enemy or another, but Sylvain couldn’t fix that now. Instead he wiped a damp cloth down Felix’s face and neck and cried hot angry tears because Felix wouldn’t. He kept thinking about Rodrigue asking him how Felix was faring, how Sylvain had thought there would be time later for them to try and mend their fractures.

Felix didn’t _like_ his father, they couldn’t ever seem to communicate properly with each other, and somehow Rodrigue always said _just_ the right thing to set Felix off, but Sylvain knew that somewhere he still _loved_ him. But Felix was Felix, and he didn’t grieve with tears anymore—he would withdraw, direct his pain inwards into anger, push himself harder to excel, to _protect_, and Sylvain wished he could comfort him even a little.

All he could do for him though was clean a little blood off of him, assess his physical wounds, and keep everyone else with their condolences away—Felix wouldn’t want to hear them, they’d hurt more than they’d help.

Instead of saying he was sorry, or that Rodrigue was a good man who would be missed, he looked up at Felix as he knelt before him, Felix’s sleeve rolled back so Sylvain could wipe away blood from a healed cut, and asked “What do you need, right now?”

Felix looked down at him, had been watching in silence as Sylvain cleaned him up like a child, and he gently took the rag from Sylvain’s hands and used it to wipe the tear tracks from Sylvain’s cheeks. “Just. Sit with me.” He sounded tired, and old, and Sylvain was sick of having his heart broken today. He nodded, took the rag back and finished cleaning Felix up.

Sylvain sat next to him on the cot and put an arm around his shoulders—Felix had done this much for _him_, after they’d fought Miklan and Sylvain hadn’t been sure how to feel. Regret, mostly, that someone as capable as his brother had wound up dying in such a way, and self-loathing for being the cause even if he’d never tried. But he’d been sad, too, that he’d never been able to love his brother—or, _really_, be loved _by_—because of the Gautier Crest. And Felix, comforting in the only way he knew, had been silent and warm and present, an arm around Sylvain.

So he put his arm around Felix, a small human comfort, and Felix didn’t sneer or shove him or even stiffen in anger, just. Sat.

They sat together like that in silence for a long, long time.

+

“May I speak with you, Felix?”

Sylvain looked up from his book with some surprise to find Dimitri in the open doorway; Sylvain hadn’t really left Felix alone for more than an hour or two since they’d returned to Garreg Mach, outside of sleeping and bathing. Right now they were reading in Felix’s room during some down time, Felix engrossed in some book Ashe had dropped off (with a meal Sylvain had quietly asked him to make so that Felix would _eat_) while Sylvain took notes on white magic theory.

“I’m not interested in your condolences,” Felix snapped, but it was more tired than usual, less bite. Dimitri’s mouth, already grimly set, tightened a little. Sylvain noticed he looked the healthiest he had since they’d all reunited—clean hair pulled back out of his face, his remaining eye a bit less shadowed by purple, sleepless bruising. Maybe Dedue finally managed to convince him to take care of himself, or let himself be taken care of.

“It’s not about that; no condolence would be adequate. I thought…” Sylvain watched him struggle for a moment, looking more like the young man attending the Officer’s Academy than the condemned beast driven by vengeance. It was awful, but Rodrigue’s death seemed to have snapped something within him, woken him up. He knew Felix saw it too, because he slammed his book shut with an annoyed noise and turned the full brunt of his glare on Dimitri.

“What?” The bite was back in full, and Sylvain actually felt sorry for Dimitri—it wasn't as if he had asked Rodrigue to jump in front of him, and Sylvain hadn't forgotten how pitiful he'd been. But Felix was Felix, and he was well within rights to be upset. Dimitri took the glare and the biting tone as if he expected them, but he glanced at Sylvain for a moment, like he hadn't expected _him_ to be present for this. Sylvain gave him a tiny shrug, and Dimitri turned back to Felix.

“I thought that you should know Rodrigue’s last words. I know your disdain for those who throw their lives away pointlessly, and I think it does you a disservice to let you think Rodrigue did so.” Sylvain looked at Felix, saw the little flinch around his eyes, and wondered if he might have to break up a fight. He thought if Dimitri said Rodrigue 'died well', Felix might truly snap, but instead Dimitri looked down at his own clenched fist.

“I...admonished him, for taking the blow which should have been mine. I could not stand one more soul to avenge.” His lips curled, a half-smile, but it was mirthless and it hurt Sylvain to see. “But he admonished me in return, and declared he was not dying for me. That no one had ever died _for me_.” Dimitri looked up then, into Felix's eyes, and he accepted the anger there as he continued.

“He told me that he was dying as I should live, for that which he believed in. That I must not live for the dead, but for my beliefs. I could not accept his words then, but I... have come to see their truth. Rodrigue did not give his life for one man, but for his beliefs, and I will no longer throw my life and the lives of those who follow me away to seek justice for the dead.” Dimitri's voice had grown raw but strong, and Sylvain was surprised when Felix spoke, harsh and equally raw.

“He could have told you that without dying for it.”

“I truly wish that he had,” Dimitri said, and his whole face twisted with grief, the strength leaving while the rawness remained. “I also...should have listened more to your words, Felix, but I was not. Capable. I am sorry that it took this to open my ears.” Felix was silent for a long moment.

“So am I. You'd better make this all worth it, Dimitri, _really_ show that you've learned—now go away.” Felix looked back at the closed book in his hands, gripped tightly. Dimitri was staring at him in surprise, and Sylvain understood; it had been years since Felix had called him Dimitri to his face. Dimitri looked at Sylvain after a moment, then bowed and left. The silence that filled his place was heavy.

Felix seemed to feel the weight of it, his shoulders hunching slowly, moment by moment, but Sylvain couldn't speak into it himself; he didn't know what to say that wouldn't break more than the silence. So he waited for Felix's shoulders to lift again—maybe all he needed to do was sit and help bear the load until it lightened on its own.

“Sylvain,” Felix finally said quietly, looking up at the empty doorway with his shoulders straight again, but he didn't have to finish because Sylvain immediately stood and started gathering his book and notes.

“I'll come get you for dinner,” he said, and Felix huffed but didn't say no. Sylvain closed the door behind him on the way out, and then went to lie on his own bed, staring up thoughtfully at the ceiling until it was almost time for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, I will try not to take longer than a month with the next chapter haha but with holidays coming up it may be slow!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@AceMorningStar](https://twitter.com/AceMorningStar)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm y'all I'm sorry it has been months since I posted haha I had. A Lot going on irl, and this chapter did not want to cooperate, so I hope this double update was worth the wait!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: canon typical violence and some mild gore

Eventually Sylvain had to give Felix space and return to their routines.

In a perfect world, Sylvain would have all the time he could want for comforting Felix in the only ways Felix would accept; in a perfect world, his comfort wouldn't be _ needed_. But they were in a world at war, Felix was in a very Felix state of mourning, and Sylvain was needed to help with preparations for the march to retake Fhirdiad—two weeks was all he could spare to make sure Felix wasn't killing himself at the training grounds, working himself to death and ignoring that his body needed _ food _ and _ sleep. _

But Felix was just as busy as Sylvain was, now that Dimitri had decided they would turn back towards Faerghus and liberate their people, and outside of war councils and the occasional meal they hardly saw each other over the last two weeks of Harpstring Moon.

Dimitri's choice improved morale incredibly; Sylvain bumped into Annette singing twice and she hardly seemed bothered to be caught, Ingrid seemed to shine with purpose, and even Ferdinand agreed that Dimitri was making the proper choice.

To Sylvain, the damn war felt _ right, _ finally. They were always going to fight it, the Empire hadn't really given them a choice (surrender was not a choice, not for a true _ Faerghan_), but now it felt like they were fighting back with a _ purpose._ Not just resisting death as long as they could, pushing back so the history books would show Adrestia had to _ work _ to conquer them.

It finally felt like they were following a _ king—_Dimitri had always been meant for the throne, had always _ belonged _ there. The Dimitri of their childhood had cared so much about Faerghus and its people, and the Dimitri of their academy days had cared so much about reparations for Duscur. This vengeful Dimitri who haunted the ruined cathedral pleading with ghosts and then stalked the battlefield howling for blood and heads on gates hadn't felt like a _ king _ to Sylvain.

He was still Dimitri, of course; Sylvain couldn't separate his friend from his actions the way Felix had, calling him a boar and insisting the 'real' Dimitri had died. But he hadn't felt _ right_. He still didn't, not entirely, but he certainly felt a lot more like someone Sylvain might trust not to drive the world into the ground. Someone who was getting better, _ trying _ to get better, and that was really enough for Sylvain.

It was more than Sylvain had ever done, himself.

He threw himself into planning, taking over the correspondence with his father, who had taken command of the war effort on Faerghus soil after the death of Rodrigue. It wasn't something Sylvain enjoyed, but if anyone in their army knew how to handle his father, it was Sylvain. It was a bit of a giveaway that he was more than just a good soldier, pretty but empty headed and irresponsible, but by this point of the war Sylvain couldn't afford to waste his skills on fooling his father. He could worry about his father realizing he was competent when this war was over.

Somehow, through Byleth and Dimitri's planning, the coordination of Sylvain, Catherine, and Gilbert for troops and supplies, and Ferdinand and surprisingly Leonie's organization and distribution of said supplies, they managed to be ready to march on Fhirdiad by the end of the month.

It was almost a relief when they finally started the march and Sylvain found Felix stationed between his and Annette's battalions; Sylvain cajoled Annette into starting a marching tune, and he only looked away from the small, absent smile on Felix's face when he had to pay attention to where he was directing his mount.

+

Fhirdiad was hard.

The battle itself would have been difficult enough, but the setting only made things worse—their forces moved through open streets torn by rioting, strewn with debris and splattered with blood. The evidence of Cornelia's tyranny made for a quiet march into the center of the capital.

Sylvain didn't have as many strong memories of Fhirdiad as Dimitri and Annette and even Felix did, hadn't spent as much of his childhood there, but it was still familiar enough that the changes were uncomfortable to see. Fighting in the wilds or in unfamiliar towns was one thing, but marching along the ruined street you recalled once held a bakery with the best apple tarts in Fhirdiad was... it was difficult.

Felix didn't seem to struggle with it as Sylvain did, all efficiency at Sylvain's side, but he was always better in the midst of battle than anything else. Sylvain thought it gave him a sort of clarity, having a blade in his hand, challenging his own mortality and proving its master over and over. If their battlefield location bothered him, it would come out later, in his own small _ Felix _ ways.

The actual fighting was fierce, Cornelia directing from above as mixed units of Dukedom and Imperial soldiers tried to repel their assault, with strange mechanical behemoths backing them up. Things were further complicated when they reached the courtyard before the palace and found some sort of magical devices bolstering the behemoths' defensive strength. Sylvain directed his battalion to hold the focus of one behemoth alongside Felix, Dedue and Dimitri tackling another as they waited for Ashe and Annette to make their way further into the surrounding city to deactivate the devices, Ingrid and Seteth guiding from the air.

The moment the behemoths were unprotected, Dimitri smashed his way through the one he had been fighting, even as Felix darted in to strike a damaging blow to the exposed mechanisms of the behemoth he fought with Sylvain. Sylvain added a fire spell to knock it back as it fell, and then he and his battalion were following Felix on to the next enemy.

They eventually converged on Cornelia at the same time as Dimitri and Dedue, Byleth appearing close behind the prince, and Sylvain and Felix busied themselves with her archers and support mages while Dimitri faced her directly.

They were still taking down the last of them when Dimitri struck a fatal blow to Cornelia, and Sylvain and Felix only caught the tail end of her taunts—Sylvain would like to run her through himself at the look on Dimitri's face, something deeply shattered as Cornelia said his mother never loved him. The implication that Patricia was involved in Duscur was clear, but the mage who had orchestrated so much chaos slipped away into death, and nothing more could be learned from her.

Taking stock of their surroundings, Sylvain found the battle was over, and he looked down on Cornelia—he felt a wave of bile rise in the back of his throat at how someone so vile could be so _ beautiful_. It was a disgustingly unfair truth that beauty had no bearing on virtue; not with all the women Sylvain had bedded who only wanted to use him, and not with Sylvain _himself_.

It stoked his self-hatred, a low boil throughout checking their allies and stationing soldiers to secure the city, setting up a makeshift infirmary and moving the wounded, and getting the word out to the people that Cornelia and the Empire were no longer in possession of Fhirdiad.

By the time the sun was setting and Dimitri was ushered out onto a balcony, Sylvain was a dull roar of barely contained disgust.

He stood to the side in the shadows with Felix and Ingrid, and he watched the wonder and the _ terror _ on Dimitri's face as the crowd below erupted into noise at the sight of him. The way Dimitri first looked to Byleth and then to Dedue, the shake in his voice when he asked if he _ deserved _ to be king, all made the disgust rise and guilt twist in Sylvain. 

There were so many burdens on his friends—Dimitri with crown and country and his ghosts and his bloodied hands, Ingrid with her chivalry and her rocky soil and her father's endless proposals, Felix with generations of service to an ideal he loathed and the shadow of an empty suit of armor and his words gone more bitter as they went unheard.

Sylvain put careful arms around Ingrid and Felix's shoulders, and for once neither of them shrugged him off. Ingrid leaned into him a fraction, wiping at her face, and he felt Felix sigh. Sylvain was only one man, he couldn't possibly hold all of that weight (he struggled enough already with his own), but he still felt a _ responsibility_. He was the oldest, and it had always been his job to shield them. He's done a _ shit _ job, but it was his nonetheless.

There was movement in the corner of his eye, and when he turned he found Felix looking at him with a tiny, assessing frown. For a second Sylvain was breathless—everyone was looking at Dimitri, but _ Felix _ was looking at _ Sylvain_, with the same kind of look he reserved for checking for injuries when they met up after a fight. Felix's frown deepened and Sylvain's lungs started to work again, along with his brain.

"What?" he whispered, pasting on a quick smile—he had slipped, his expression too grim, especially for the occasion, and Felix's eyes narrowed but he shook his head once and looked back to where Dimitri stood.

Afterwards there was a celebration, of course—you can't liberate a city _ without _ one—and Felix caught Sylvain as he was trying to sneak out halfway through, hoping to find a quiet room to sleep off the unpleasant swirl of loathing at the bottom of his belly and the base of his spine.

"Tell me you're not _ actually _ sneaking off for a tryst right now," Felix said, fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword in annoyance, but the look on his face was...hell, _ almost _ concerned. It helped Sylvain keep his mouth shut around a stupid joke, or even worse, a come-on.

"_Actually_, I'm not, if you can believe it," Sylvain answered, and somehow that only tipped Felix from _ almost_-concerned to genuinely-_openly_-concerned. "What?" 

Felix fidgeted with the hilt of his sword again, looking somewhere in the center of Sylvain's chest. "You're being weird." He glanced up at Sylvain's face to see what impact that had and then glared at him. "Stop doing that, I hate that. That fake smile nonsense," he added when Sylvain lifted an eyebrow.

So Sylvain stopped trying to smile, and Felix's fingers stopped tapping the hilt of his sword. "Is this about Cornelia?" Felix asked, and it was all Sylvain could do not to flinch. He loved Felix, but the guy could be a little oblivious sometimes, and the last thing he expected was—ah.

It was about Cornelia, but not the way Felix was probably thinking, judging from the little twist of his mouth and the eye contact he was making an effort at. Sylvain had always had a thing about _ family_, of course Felix would worry about Sylvain pretending so hard after Cornelia dropped such an awful thing on Dimitri. Sylvain's posture relaxed, and while the rueful curl of his lips could _ barely _ be called a smile, it was wholly real.

"I'm just tired, Felix." Felix didn't look like he was going to accept that, but Sylvain never found out what he would have continued with—they were both close enough to the doors to see the guard escorting a messenger with a Leicester badge, which meant they got to be the lucky generals receiving Claude's request for aid.

+

Sylvain was so busy it was ridiculous—the whirlwind of preparation to march to Derdriu's aid made their preparation for Fhirdiad look like planning a children's party. It was the urgency of the situation, combined with Dimitri's newly regained inability to ignore a cry for help, compounded by Byleth and Sylvain's joint, silent worry over Claude as they worked.

Strategically, the Kingdom couldn't allow the Empire to seize Leicester if they hoped to win the war, and it wouldn't hurt at all to have the Alliance in their debt; these were the popular rebuttals whenever the protests that this could all be an elaborate trap started.

There were also the reports from their scouts and spies of massive troop movements on the Imperial front, though these were details that couldn't be widely shared without risking said spies. Still, the majority sentiment towards the whole thing was quite positive. There was something about going into battle to _ rescue _ rather than _ destroy _ that lifted spirits and improved morale, especially on the heels of reclaiming their capital and establishing a real base of supplies and manpower.

Sylvain was on his way from dropping off seeds at the greenhouse when Byleth called out, and he turned to find them hurrying up behind him. “I’ve been looking for you,” they said as they came to his side, “are you busy right now?” Sylvain was, in fact, busy, but he would be busy right up until the moment they started marching, and he could certainly make time for whatever Byleth needed, so he shook his head. “Oh good,” they said, and the little relieved sigh he got made it worth whatever extra work Byleth had for him.

But when he followed them to their room he was not met with paperwork or some crucial item to deliver—instead, Byleth’s famous tea table was set up, and Sylvain found himself blinking in the doorway as Byleth set about heating water. There was a little stack of fruit tarts arranged on a plate, not the usual spread Byleth liked to provide but still pretty amazing considering how short they’d been getting on supplies before reclaiming Fhirdiad; even wilder, Byleth was spooning _ bergamot _ into the teapot.

Sylvain whistled as he stepped into the room. “Wow, Professor, what’s the occasion?” Byleth looked up with that curious frown of theirs, and Sylvain actually felt a little bad—they seemed almost _ disappointed._

“Sylvain… it’s your birthday.” Oh. Oh, yes, of course forgetting _ that _ would disappoint Byleth. Sylvain sat down and turned the empty cup before him until the handle faced him, avoiding Byleth’s gaze.

“Sorry, Professor, guess it slipped my mind with all the prep we’ve been doing.” He looked up when Byleth started to pour—Sylvain’s favorite tea, and didn’t that make him feel special _ and _ a bit like an asshole—only to find the frown still there.

“You don’t have to apologize, Sylvain; it’s _ your _ birthday you forgot. I’m only sorry everyone’s been so busy, I thought for certain someone else would have beaten me to it.” They sat then, frowning into their own cup, and Sylvain sighed. This was something nice that Byleth had taken time to do when everyone was busy, Byleth the busiest of all, and Sylvain sure wasn’t going to let it be wasted.

“This is my favorite; you remembered,” he said, lifting his cup and gesturing with it towards Byleth, and the frown lifted a notch. “Where did you even find Albinean berry tarts?” Byleth’s lips quirked up the tiniest bit into a smile, conspiratorial as they leaned in and sipped their tea.

“I have my ways.”

“Mysterious ones,” Sylvain said, winking, and Byleth laughed—a soft huff, not much, but from _ Byleth _ it was as good as an outright chuckle.

They chatted idly together as they munched on the tarts, but there were still pressing duties and they couldn’t sit very long. When Sylvain cried off a third cup of tea, Byleth sighed. “I’m sorry it wasn’t much, but I wanted to make sure you knew how much I appreciate everything you’ve been doing, Sylvain.”

“Don’t sweat it, it was nice,” he said, and he meant it. “And I haven’t been doing all _ that _ much; you and Ferdinand are probably busier than I am.”

“Sylvain,” and ah, there was the frown again, but admonishing this time, “please don’t sell yourself short. I know you’ve given up a lot for this, taking on so much of the logistics work.” Sylvain swallowed. “You’ve always been smart—I graded your tests, I _ know_. But you always act as though you aren’t, and you still deflect compliments on your work ethic. It’s alright to let your friends think you’re reliable, you know.”

“It’s…” Sylvain couldn’t really say Byleth was wrong, but still. It wouldn’t do for everyone to start thinking he was more than he was, to start expecting things from him, no matter how hard he was working for this. Of course he was putting in effort, this was a _ war _ they were fighting—once it was over, _ if _ it was ever over, he would probably go back to pretending to be totally useless. His father wasn’t going anywhere for a while, after all, and the last thing Sylvain wanted to do was be sent off to conquer Sreng, or worse, be his father’s hand at Dimitri’s court.

“Either way,” Byleth said with a sigh, mercifully letting Sylvain off of the hook, “I appreciate your help. Happy Birthday.” They turned in their chair and reached for their desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a small package, brown paper wrapped. They slid it across the table towards him, and it was Sylvain’s turn to frown.

“Professor, you didn’t have to—”

“I know. I wanted to. It’s your _ birthday._” Now they looked stern, as if daring him to argue with that, and Sylvain really couldn’t. So instead he pulled the package the last few inches towards himself, and began to unwrap the paper with its carefully tucked edges. How long had this even taken Byleth? They really shouldn’t have gone out of their way over _ Sylvain_— 

“Oh…” The sound fell out of him, surprised and pleased at the little framed charcoal landscape. It was simple, a forest scene, but the artist had an incredible grasp on light and dark, giving the pines that made up the focus of the piece depth. Sylvain could easily imagine the shadows of the piece teeming with life, birds and squirrels in the branches and deeper there would be rabbits and deer and elk and bears. “_Byleth_, this is… _ thank _ you.”

Sylvain trailed a finger along the frame and looked up at Byleth, who was practically beaming at him. When had they even found the time to shop, to prepare for this? Even in all this, they were still thinking about their students first—they shouldn’t have bothered setting aside so much time for _ Sylvain_, not with everything on their plate. Goddess, he had to work harder—he kept losing sight of _why_ he was even fighting. Not just to survive, or to even win, but to end this war so that his loved ones could know some bit of peace, some chance of happiness. 

Byleth, setting aside time for something like a birthday tea party in the midst of all this, must feel the same.

“Thank you,” he repeated, softer, and he hoped they understood just how much he really meant it.

+

They marched soon after his birthday, their force too large now to move in quick strikes like they were used to. It was slower than Sylvain liked, but they had calculated everything down to the last possible raindrop or thrown horseshoe, and they ought to make it in time. 

On the final morning of their march, Felix snagged him by the arm before he could mount up, and Sylvain turned to face him, surprised. Felix was glaring at the middle of his chest, mouth turned in a little scowl, and when he had Sylvain's full attention he crossed his arms.

"I know you're worried about Riegan," he started, his tone careful and serious, "but don't do anything stupid out there. I know that's hard for you," he added, finally looking up at Sylvain, and it felt like Sylvain's heart almost tripled in pace at the genuine worry in Felix's eyes.

"I won't, Felix; I promise." Claude was his friend, and Sylvain _ was _ worried about him, but he also knew Claude was a genius and a slippery bastard. He just had to trust that Claude had plans within plans for repelling the Empire's invasion and stick to the strategies Byleth had ordered. Felix's scowl became less challenging and more embarrassed as he shifted his eyes away from Sylvain's face.

"Good. I don't want to have to chase you down to save you from some idiot scheme again." But he would, he _ would_, it went unsaid but Sylvain still smiled, feeling warm and amused because only Felix could call him an idiot and make Sylvain feel _ cared for_.

"Promise you'll be careful, too?" he said, and Felix scoffed, shooting a suddenly wide-eyed look to Sylvain's face, fingers flexing on his crossed arms.

"I'm not the one who needs to be," he grumbled, looking away from Sylvain's smile, and Sylvain wanted to press his mouth with promises, pull answering ones from Felix’s lips, but he held himself back; he’d had so much practice, after all. And Sylvain couldn't promise that he wouldn’t die or be injured, but he could and _ did _ promise not to be reckless—he _ needed _ Felix to do the same.

He knew how to get _ that_, if he couldn’t get anything else. 

"Felix. If you don't promise, I'll be consumed with worry and I'll do something dumb because I'll be _ so _ distracted—"

"Saints, you're impossible—I _ promise _ I'll be _ careful;_ are you satisfied?" He glared up at Sylvain again, slightly pink and flustered, and Sylvain had to temper his answering smile.

“If you keep your promise, I will be.” Felix rolled his eyes and grumbled and stalked off, but that was fine. The memory of Felix’s concern would bolster him through the coming fight, no matter the circumstances.

He held on to his promise as he rode with his battalion to close port entrances, fighting back Arundel’s reinforcements. Sylvain would rather be riding off to help Claude, would rather be with Felix fighting alongside Judith von Daphnel, but this was his part to play. 

It was actually a surprise when his battalion and Leonie’s met, finding themselves faced with Arundel himself as they approached the final entrance to the port. Things began to blend together, then, the fighting devolving into the mud and blood of heated close quarters, so much so that Sylvain didn’t notice Byleth and Dimitri closing on Arundel until magic sizzled and the brilliant arc of the Sword of the Creator shone in the corner of his eye.

With Arundel defeated, the remaining soldiers fell easily, fled, or outright surrendered. 

Mercedes moved to heal Arundel as Dimitri spoke with him—he was too valuable to execute outright, had too much information—but before she could apply even the most basic of faith spells he fired even more barbed words at Dimitri and was gone. Dimitri looked pained, but bitterly so, as if he was unsurprised by the things Arundel had said about Edelgard and Dimitri. 

It was something Sylvain would need to pursue, but not now—Byleth had things under control with Dimitri, a comforting hand on his arm as they spoke quietly, and Sylvain had other duties. 

He helped Leonie move a protesting Ferdinand to their healers (the man was stubborn, heavy, and head-struck, a combination which made him a handful) and nodded to Felix when their eyes met across a group of makeshift cots where Felix was holding a groaning soldier still for Marianne as she worked. Even across the space Sylvain could see Felix’s shoulders relax before he turned back to his task, and Sylvain sighed; didn’t _ anyone _trust him to keep his promises?

Sylvain helped a few more of the injured over to the healers, and then he spotted a flash of gold in the corner of his eye and looked up to see Claude standing with Dimitri and Byleth. So he was fine, then, or someone (Sylvain had seen the telltale flash of rose-petal-pink during the fighting) would have had him sitting for a healer.

When Claude turned his back to the pair and started off in the direction of the docks, Sylvain veered off from his task and followed him.

“Disappearing on me without even a goodbye?” Sylvain said as he caught up with Claude, in those precious moments before his inevitable departure. Sylvain hadn't heard what was said, but he _ knew _ what it meant for the leader of a besieged country to press his Heroes' Relic into Byleth's hand before sauntering off. Claude was leaving; he'd probably be back, more for Byleth than for Failnaught, but _ still._

Claude smiled at him, small and fond and the tiniest bit apologetic. “Sorry I can't stick around to celebrate, but I have a ship to catch, and the tide doesn't wait for even a handsome devil like me.”

“Did it wait long enough for you to _ talk _ to Byleth?” Sylvain asked, because he knew Claude hadn't stopped caring for Byleth, and because he was wondering what level of damage control he and Ferdinand would need to carry out over the next few weeks.

“Not enough for an in-depth heartfelt conversation, but enough for an _ understanding_,” Claude said, and then as smooth as capturing one of Sylvain's pieces in an old chess game added, “but we can't all be as lucky as you, Sylvain. Congratulations, by the way.”

“For what?” Claude looked at him for a second, like he was trying to figure out if Sylvain was being coy or being dense; he seemed to settle on dense.

“Finally sorting out your whatever-it-is with Felix?” Sylvain stared at him, wasting a few precious seconds.

“That's definitely _ not _ sorted? So far from _ sorted _ that I have to say you're more _ sorted _ with Byleth than I am with _ Felix_, in every aspect.” Claude, actually, looked incredulous.

“Sylv—did you suffer a head injury in an earlier campaign? You've always been smarter than _ this_.” Before Sylvain could protest his offense, Claude went on, “The man chased you across a battlefield on foot and almost cooked me with a _ Thoron_, and then looked at me like he would kill everyone in a ten foot radius if I so much as breathed wrong in your direction. And now you're telling me it's not _ sorted_?”

Sylvain's hand went to the back of his neck, “It only looks that way because you don't know him. That's just how Felix is. I promise, he was calling me an absolute idiot ten seconds before we rode up.” An idiot for relying on what Felix thought was Claude's academy crush on him, and implied for going off into danger _ alone_, without Felix, where he would surely wind up breaking their promise. Claude was looking at Sylvain now as though he might agree that Sylvain was an idiot.

“Sylvain... I have to leave, but in the interests of you surviving long enough for me to see you again, maybe entertain the possibility that Felix is madly in love with you.” Sylvain couldn't help it—he laughed. It was even funnier to him considering the fact that Claude was serious; Felix, who acted like a cat dropped in a bathtub if Sylvain _ looked _ at him, _ in love _ with Sylvain? Sylvain let the impossibility of it show in his grin, and Claude sighed. “At least _ think _ about it? Put that big brain to use.”

“It's always in use—“ he started, but a familiar, indignant voice interrupted them.

“Claude, what is this about dissolving—“ Lorenz was saying as he stalked up, heated, but he stopped as Marianne put a hand on his arm. He glanced down at her in surprise, must not have realized she was following him, and he seemed to deflate a little, a hand coming up to cover his face. Sylvain looked at Claude—there was a lot more he wanted to say, but he knew time was short, and Lorenz needed that time more.

“Look... take care of yourself.” Claude smiled, and Sylvain pointed at him. “And don't drop off the map, you beautiful bastard.”

“Same to you, friend,” Claude said, and then Sylvain turned and left.

“Nearly three hundred years of history, Claude...” he heard Lorenz saying as he walked away, and he thought about how much more would change before this war was through.

+

The news of Edelgard’s connection to Dimitri went over about as well as could be expected, which was: not very well at all. Felix, in some small way, seemed almost mortally offended that he had never known about Edelgard or even Patricia, as if the quality of their childhood friendship was now in question. Sylvain only made jokes about seducing Edelgard, knowing the absurdity would take his friends’ minds off of the horror of the situation, even just for a moment.

Dimitri had so little left, had lost everything in the Tragedy—his childhood, his family, his _ sanity_… it seemed unaccountably cruel that he should have to kill the only family he had left in order to end this war.

And Dimitri, somehow still softhearted, admitted that if there was a way to end this through dialogue, he would. But no one was fool enough to expect that Edelgard would compromise, not with the Church or the Kingdom, not after all these years of war.

So instead they planned to continue their march on Enbarr, with their next destination being Fort Merceus. 

As they prepared, a report came in from their spies that Arianrhod was in prime position to be retaken, garrisoned by only a skeleton crew but with more troops on the march from Enbarr. Dimitri immediately put together a task force to move in and secure the Silver Maiden and hold it until a proper detachment could be sent to man the fortress; if the Empire held and reinforced Arianrhod, it would be a permanent thorn in the Kingdom’s side for the rest of the war, far too dangerous of a position to allow.

Sylvain was sent, along with Felix, Ashe, Ingrid, Shamir, and Flayn with their battalions while the rest of their army remained behind at Garreg Mach to plan their march on Fort Merceus. Dimitri had wanted to come himself, but Byleth had convinced him that he couldn’t risk being caught in a battle with such a small force, not when so much of their hope for the war rode on his presence. Kingdom morale rested on Dimitri, especially in the wake of the Alliance’s absorption into Faerghus.

Byleth remained as well, a concession for Dimitri’s absence from the battle.

It was probably for the best that neither of them had come, because the Kingdom force arrived at the fortress practically on top of the Imperial reinforcements, led by Hubert von Vestra himself. They had known it wouldn’t be an easy fight, but Vestra’s appearance made the soldiers within the fortress fight all the harder—whether out of high morale or fear of Vestra’s wrath, Sylvain couldn’t guess.

In the thick of the fighting, Sylvain got separated from Felix, and when he looked up to search him out he felt a fist seize his heart: Felix, glorious as always on a battlefield, was facing down two knights. That wasn’t anything special, Felix could handle them, but the knight coming up from behind—it was _ always _ the enemy coming up from behind, Felix focused on some problem ahead. 

Sylvain had a choice—block the spear an enemy cavalier was leveling at him and watch Felix get hurt, or take the spear-strike and fry the son-of-a-bitch coming at Felix's back with an axe.

It was hardly a choice at all, and Sylvain had a fireball off of his fingertips in the next breath that was punched out of him by a spear catching on the armor under his arm and sliding _ up,_ piercing the flesh and muscle and scraping against bone.

His vision immediately whited from the pain of it; he heard Felix practically howl his name across the distance between them, and as he was sliding into unconsciousness he thought, _ if I survive this, Felix is going to _ kill _ me. _

+

All that signaled an ambush was the wave of heat at Felix's back, the smell of hot metal and burning leather and flesh, the gurgly shriek of pain as _ someone _ died. Felix ripped through the enemy before him with his blade and turned just in time to see Sylvain through the haze of the smoldering corpse on the ground behind him—Sylvain, several yards away with his casting arm outstretched, slumping off of his horse like a sack of bricks in plate armor, hitting the ground in a clatter that melded with the noise of battle.

A spear jutted out of his side, high in his chest, and around the wound his armor shone slick with blood.

Felix did not think, could not _ think,_ was already moving across the distance between them because Sylvain had _ done it again_, had thrown himself bodily in front of danger meant for someone else, and this time it was _ Felix _ and this time, this time—

He couldn't say later how he cast _ Bolting_, it wasn't something he _ planned_, but it certainly cleared up all the space around them, removed anyone who might see Sylvain lying on the ground like an idiot with a _ spear in— _ anyone who might see him _ bleeding out and— _ anyone who might get in the way of Felix's shitty Faith magic that _ was not enough— _

The shadow of a pegasus passed across them as he knelt ineffectual over Sylvain, and he had another Thoron on his fingertips before he even looked up to realize it was Flayn—a fucking blessing, Goddess sent, though later he would realize everyone in the sky had seen his impossible casting. She was off the pegasus before it touched hooves to earth, grim-faced in a way that made her look like a stranger as she joined him.

“He is still alive,” she said, as if that was in question, and Felix's whole fucking _ being _ shook—of _ course _ Sylvain was still alive, they had a promise and Sylvain wouldn't— “You have to move. Help me with him,” Flayn ordered, and he snapped to, holding onto her firm tone instead of his scattered thoughts.

Felix lifted his hands from around the wound in Sylvain's side, the spear jabbed high under his arm where the gap in his armor made him vulnerable. It was a bad fucking place to be stabbed with _ any _ weapon, and Felix did _ not _ think about it, even when Flayn directed him to remove the spear and he _ felt _ the pull of Sylvain's flesh reluctant to relinquish the blade. Felix was going to feel that like a ghost in his muscle memory for a long time he thought vaguely, keeping watch on the battle around them, light flaring through Flayn's hands on Sylvain's chest.

It was like another blessing when enemies came at them, something in the situation that Felix could actually do anything about, somewhere to focus this feeling of useless frustration and _terror_. 

He stood between two armored enemies with heavy axes and Flayn as she worked, and he sized them up—magic would be best, but there was a dull throb in his arm with every beat of his pulse, and it was better not to chance it. Magic might fail him, but his sword hadn’t yet, and he went at the knights with his blade and bloody determination and the strength of his Crest.

By the time they were dispatched Flayn had finished as much as she could, and the sounds of fighting were growing quiet—they had taken Arianrhod, Felix was sure, and what mattered now was getting Sylvain to a proper infirmary instead of lying in a bloodied heap in the streets.

Sylvain was too pale, his hair like fire against his skin, and Felix desperately wanted to see his eyes, some proof of Sylvain still being inside this porcelain-pale vessel. He brushed hair out of Sylvain's face and left a bloody streak across his cheek, shuddering as he pulled off his glove and swiped the blood away with his bare fingers; Sylvain was warm under his touch, but nothing close to the sun-like radiance of heat Felix was used to after years of shrugging Sylvain's arm off of his shoulders or smacking teasing fingers away from his hair.

“Sylvain will surely be alright, Felix,” Flayn said, and then, “may I see your arm?” Felix frowned in confusion but held out his arm, and surprised himself with a hiss when she touched it.

“What...?”

“It appears your Bolting backlashed, as I suspected,” she said, quiet but without judgement. “I can heal this—“

“Don't bother,” he cut her off, “I'll have it seen to when we get Sylvain to an infirmary.” He did not want to waste any more time, not when Sylvain was so unnaturally still and _ quiet,_ and if he hadn't noticed the injury before Flayn pointed it out, it obviously wasn’t _ that _ pressing. Flayn frowned deeply, but she seemed to think better of pushing Felix. Instead she helped Felix sling Sylvain over his horse (a monumental effort, Sylvain being heavy enough without his armor and worse now that he was dead-weight) and then mounted her pegasus, guiding them through the fort and back to where their troops were gathering.

Then it was all a whirlwind of activity, Sylvain being whisked off to the fort's infirmary and Felix being forced to sit for a healing (under the threat that if he didn't, it could permanently hinder his swordsmanship) before meeting with Shamir and Ingrid to discuss their troop strength and reinforcing the fortifications until the soldiers meant to permanently garrison at the fort arrived. 

Inevitably, at some point, he found an empty bunk in the barracks and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@AceMorningStar](https://twitter.com/AceMorningStar)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little different, it's all Felix POV and is largely flashbacks starting during the Academy Phase

“_The corridor was dark, the candle flickering in the breeze from the storm that blew in through the boarded windows,_” Felix read aloud. “_The shadows cast by the candle seemed to be alive, dancing along the floor ahead of the maiden. She felt that any one of them could rear up and seize her, rend her limb_—”

“Augh, is this one going to get gory?” Ashe asked, sitting next to him on top of Ashe's bed, their backs to the wall. Felix was relaxed, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, but Ashe had his knees drawn up to his chest and his fists pressed to his chin. Despite himself, Felix smiled small and lopsided.

“No, but would it matter? You read tales of battle all the time and the gore never bothers you.” Ashe scoffed.

“That’s different, that’s not gruesome—”

“_And Loog brought his lance to bear and foe upon foe fell before him, until the blood was as a river_—”

“You memorized that?” Ashe asked, soft and surprised, and Felix rolled his eyes with a huff.

“I told you I’d read it before, and I grew up with Ingrid. I’ve heard it quoted often enough to remember. Anyways, how is a river of blood _not_ gruesome?” He turned to look at Ashe, closing the book with his finger marking the place. Now Ashe rolled _his_ eyes.

“Its gore, yes, but it’s _poetic_, not—” he bit off, color rising across his face, his nose going endearingly pink.

“Scary?” Felix finished for him, tone even, but Ashe could tell when he was being teased, and he frowned—it was _not_ a pout, definitely _not_ cute, and Felix definitely wasn't going to tell him so. Ashe brought one of his balled fists down from his chin to thump Felix on the shoulder, but there was no anger in it, just a little friendly annoyance.

“You pick ghost stories on purpose when it's your turn,” he said, and Felix cocked his head.

“I _like_ ghost stories.”

“I _think_ what you _like_ is seeing me get spooked.” Felix laughed at that, quiet and genuine, and if possible Ashe went pinker—he liked to make Felix laugh, because it was usually so difficult. But... it was easy to be softer around Ashe, more open; he hadn't known Felix his whole life, didn't act like he knew everything about him, didn't make him feel like softness was _vulnerability_. Felix could not abide being vulnerable.

“If it's too scary, you can hold my hand,” he teased, offering his free hand to Ashe, palm up. Ashe looked at him, and there was a glint in his eyes as he lifted his chin a fraction, before taking Felix's hand in his without hesitation. He tugged, just slightly, and their shoulders bumped together, their faces close now as they looked at each other.

“Did you pick a scary story as an excuse to hold my hand?” Ashe teased back, and Felix snorted defiantly.

“Do I _need_ one?” He might, with someone else. But Ashe knew it was just physical need, wouldn't read into it, and besides they'd been doing this a while.

“Not at all,” Ashe answered, fond, and his smile turned into a little smirk when _Felix_ went pink. Ashe was so free with his affection, didn't make Felix work for it, or hide it— “Are you going to keep reading?”

It was the smirk, half-there, and the pink across his nose under his freckles, and his silvery eyelashes—Felix dropped the book next to him with a huff.

“Shut up,” he said, and pulled Ashe by their connected hands to kiss him for the hundredth time.

+

Felix looked up during class one afternoon, saw Ingrid talking with Ashe by a bookcase, and then watched as she laughed at something, hand coming up to cover her mouth and her cheeks a little rosy. His eyes slid to Ashe, and his nose was pink. He wasn't looking at Ingrid's face, but at his hands. He was twiddling his fingers together with nervous energy.

Felix realized, very suddenly, that this was a bad idea.

Spending hours reading books with Ashe on their beds, flirting with him, lying under him with their limbs tangled and warm and comfortable while Ashe kissed him and kissed him and kissed him was a bad. idea.

They had clearly discussed, at the very start, that it was just kissing—there were _no_ romantic feelings, there would _be _no romantic feelings. Just. Two friends, reading books, and occasionally spending hours making out.

Privately, if he was deeply honest with himself, Felix knew that of course they couldn't guarantee that neither of them would develop feelings. Logically, the kind of intimate closeness they'd been indulging in was exactly the sort of thing that _bred_ feelings. And _yes_, feelings _had_ developed—trust, for one, and a deeper respect as he'd gotten to know Ashe better, and yes, even affection. But Felix hadn't reached love yet, and it was a damned good thing, because if he was deeply, _actually_ honest with himself...it wasn't like he wasn't headed there.

But he wasn't there _yet_, and that was why this was a bad idea.

He knew Ingrid too well, and it hurt for more reasons than he could count to see her glancing at Ashe in the same way she had once glanced at Glenn.

So.

“I think,” he said, crammed beside Ashe at the desk in his bedroom, “we should stop doing this.”

“If we don't finish this analysis the professor is going to look disappointed, and then I'm going to die from shame,” Ashe said, scribbling another note, and Felix sighed.

“I don't mean our homework, Ashe, I mean...” Ashe looked up at him then, saw the look on his face, and carefully set down his quill and waited for Felix to continue. Felix really wished Ashe would just pick up what he meant, but he would probably still want to hear Felix verbalize it anyways. So, he sighed, set down his own quill, and turned in his seat to better face Ashe, because he could at least _face_ him if he couldn't look him _directly_ in the eye.

“I think that we should stop.” His hand on the back of his chair tightened until he thought the wood might creak while Ashe waited for him to elaborate. He hated this, because he had always been too open with Ashe, too at ease, and stupidly he had thought he would never feel vulnerable; he felt vulnerable _now_, not sure of how Ashe would react. “We shouldn't kiss each other anymore.” He finally cut his eyes up to Ashe's face, and he couldn't read it, and that made him feel even more unsure.

“Ok, that's fine,” Ashe said, without any hesitation, but... he suddenly looked a little unsure himself. “Um, can I ask, is this just a spur of the moment thing, or did I do something—“

“No, no, it's.” Felix sighed, grabbed the back of his neck. “Look. Ingrid is like my sister.” Ashe didn't go pink, he went completely red, his mouth open on an 'oh'. “So, I think, before she figures out where I am when I'm not training—“

“Right, right, you are. Very right.” Ashe looked surprised, a little happy, as if this was some grand confirmation that Ingrid returned his interest, and Felix finally started to relax. This had been the right thing to do. And then Ashe's face fell a bit, and he shifted in his chair. “Uh...do you want to stop hanging out—“

“Don't be stupid,” Felix immediately spat, something like anger and maybe like fear spiking through him. “I didn't say I want to stop being friends, I said...” Felix had few enough friends that he couldn't throw them away, but Ashe wasn't like that. He wasn't prickly and didn't intimidate people, and he had plenty of friends, could make plenty more easily. “Do _you_ want to stop—“

“No! No, I don't want to stop being your friend, Felix.”

“Then don't ask me stupid questions.”

+

War started. They fled the monastery. They went their separate ways to tend to their lives and help in what ways they could; Felix went back to Fraldarius lands, of course, and it was easy to keep track of Sylvain and Ingrid so close by. He thought it would be easy to keep track of the rest, too—Annette with her uncle, Mercedes in Fhirdiad with Dimitri and Dedue, and Ashe serving House Rowe.

But then Dimitri was falsely accused and executed, and Dedue disappeared, and it became almost impossible to communicate with anyone west of Fhirdiad because the Lords and Houses there capitulated or pretended to so as not to be wiped out by neighbors. Felix worried, which he would almost never admit, about those who couldn't be reached—it was maddening to him that the strongest of them were here, fighting, while the gentlest were trapped.

Mercedes they heard from most often, able to get word out through merchant contacts, and that gave them some bit of hope as she told them she and Annette were alright. But Ashe was a different story—one letter to Ingrid when he left House Rowe's service, and then nothing.

It was a fucking relief to see him at the monastery, honestly.

Ingrid would have been awfully sad if he hadn't returned, she had always been fond of him, and it was bad enough already that Dedue was dead and Dimitri was so fully broken now. And, honestly, Felix would have been disappointed, too. Maybe even, if he got right down to it, a bit sad.

He wound up in the dining hall with Ashe after most of the others had headed off to bed, a pilfered candelabra lighting a small circle around them. A pot of tea steamed on the table between them, though Ashe was the only one drinking—chamomile, to help him sleep, and Felix had never been overly fond of it.

“I never understood how so many rumors of the monastery being haunted got passed around when we were students, but I guess I can see it now,” Felix mused, looking around at the dark and empty hall, chin rested on his palm. When he looked back at Ashe, he held his teacup in one hand, free hand extended towards Felix, palm up.

“Did you need an excuse?” he asked softly, and the smile that crossed Felix's face as he straightened up was so fucking foreign after all these years that it almost _hurt_.

“No,” he said, with a little laugh, “but I'll take it.” He reached out his hand and it was so nice, so _nice_ to have Ashe back. He was taller and a little broader and his face was sharp and adult, but he was still _Ashe_. They sat quietly for a moment, hands clasped on the tabletop next to the warm teapot. “I missed you,” he said finally, brow furrowed by the admission. “We all did. We were worried, no one really knew where you were or...”

“I'm sorry. It was...difficult, after I left House Rowe. Mostly just trying to take care of my siblings without going back to...” He sighed and shook his head, sipping his tea, and Felix ran his thumb along the back of his hand. “Anyways, I wasn't in any position to sneak letters out of Empire territory.” His face soured at the words. “I _did_ send a letter, though, I don't know if Ingrid got it—“

“When you left House Rowe? I think she still carries that around, honestly,” he said, only half teasing, and Ashe smiled soft and the predictable blush touched his nose.

“Does she, really?” Felix nodded.

“I'm pretty sure Sylvain teased her about it once or twice.”

“But not you,” Ashe teased, but Felix nodded solemnly.

“But not me.” Ashe looked at him for a long time, saw that Felix couldn't have teased Ingrid over the letter when he understood why she carried it around, missed Ashe as well, and Ashe squeezed his hand softly. He covered a little yawn with his free hand, and Felix snickered. “Your tea's working at last, huh?”

“I guess so,” he said, and grinned when Felix caught his yawn. “We should both go to bed—a lot to do.” Felix nodded and began helping him clean up, carrying the candelabra while Ashe grabbed his cup and the pot.

“A lot to do,” he agreed.

+

After a healer checked him over and confirmed there would be no permanent damaging after-effects of his impossible Bolting, Felix was kicked out of the Arianrhod infirmary because he wouldn't stop pacing and snapping at people because Sylvain _still_ wasn't awake. They could say it wasn't that serious all they liked, but then he ought to be awake, shouldn't he?

Felix was too filled with a roiling, nervous _rage_ to go and 'rest' as the healers had suggested, so he was searching for a training ground. Maybe by the time he smashed his way through a few training dummies, Sylvain would be awake, and Felix could throttle him for being so _fucking_ Sylvain.

He was still looking when soft footsteps and a firm hand on his elbow stopped him. He turned to meet Ashe's eyes—he still wasn't used to that, being the same height—and frowned.

“When's the last time you ate?” Ashe started, and Felix rolled his eyes.

“I'm not hungry.” Ashe sighed, and did not let go of his elbow. “You know the layout; where did the House Rowe soldiers train?”

“So, last time you ate was before the battle?” Ashe continued, ignoring him. “Definitely not today.” Felix yanked his elbow free, and Ashe let him.

“Do you nag Ingrid like this?” Ashe blushed the tiniest bit, but he wasn't deterred.

“I don't have to, she's smart enough to take care of herself, especially after a battle. If you _want_, I can show you to the training ground, and then they'll let you back into the infirmary as a patient when you collapse.” Felix glared at him for a long moment, but he knew Ashe was right.

“Fine.” Ashe's beaming smile was almost worth giving in. So he allowed Ashe to lead him to one of the rooms they had secured for their army to rest in, and to sit him down at a small table and make him tea.

“It's not Almyran pine needle, I couldn't find any, but you don't mind almond blend, right?” Ashe said absently as he set a cup of tea and a tin filled with crackers in front of Felix, and Felix nodded. He sipped the tea, barely tasting it, and gingerly nibbled at one of the crackers.

He honestly _wasn't_ hungry, still too fucking angry and worried about Sylvain. His stomach was like a fist clenched inside of him.

“You know, Sylvain really will be alright.” Felix snorted and ate the next cracker with a bit more vicious energy.

“So you're a healer, now?” Ashe took one of the crackers for himself, sitting across from Felix.

“No, but if it was really serious they would tell you; they're not generally in the habit of lying to family about mortality.” Felix rolled his eyes.

“We're hardly family.” Ashe snorted a very un-Ashe snort.

“Just because you're not married yet—Felix?!”

Felix, for his part, was busily choking on a cracker. Ashe came around the table and thumped him on the back until Felix waved a hand at him, half pushing him away.

“What the _hell_ are you—_marriage_—“ he sputtered when he finally got his air back, and Ashe lifted his hands defensively.

“I mean, you don't _have_ to get married, it's not—“

“No, really, what— what the _fuck_, Ashe, why—“ he broke off for a second, took a few deep, calming breaths that he blew out through his nose, because this was. Insane. “_Why_,” he began again, not really calm but somewhat more controlled, “would you ever! Put me and Sylvain into a sentence together _like that?_” Ashe looked confused for a moment and then frowned.

“I'm a little lost here, are you upset because I brought up your relationship? I mean, Ingrid was a little hurt you kept it secret, and I told her you probably just wanted your privacy, but either way it's not like you have to hide—“ He stopped talking at the look on Felix's face. Felix wasn't sure what face he was making, honestly, because he had the distinct feeling he'd lost touch with reality.

“What relationship?!” he finally managed to grind out, and Ashe's frown deepened just a notch.

“Felix...everyone knows.”

“Knows. What?!”

“That you and Sylvain are together, was it supposed to be a secret?” Ashe just stared at him in growing worry as Felix laughed.

“Oh, Saints, are you joking?” he asked between laughter. “That's the most _ridiculous_—Ashe. Really, that's a terrible joke, though, who would believe...” Ashe had sat back down, looking shocked, and Felix's laughter evaporated as a coldness settled over him—'_everyone knows_'. “Ashe. Ashe, you _are_ joking, right? There is no Me And Sylvain.”

“I'm starting to understand that,” Ashe said, and he was rubbing the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, looking very tired.

“Why the hell would you think there _was_?” Felix asked, and Ashe actually barked out a laugh.

“Felix, are _you_ joking?” They stared at each other. “You're not. Wow. Ok. Alright, how about for starters, it's very obvious to all of your friends that the two of you are in love.” He sounded very serious and very fed up, and Felix could only stare at him for a moment in absolute bewilderment.

“There is no way in _hell_. Sylvain Jose Gautier. The biggest _fucking_ skirt chaser in _Fodlan_. Is _in love! With me_.” Ashe only sipped his tea quietly for a moment, before delivering the most traitorous deathblow possible.

“So you don't deny you're in love with _him_, then.” Felix pushed back his chair and stood, turning to leave. “Do you want to have this conversation with Ingrid instead?” Felix whipped back around to glare at Ashe, but Ashe didn't even have the decency to look fazed by it. Felix slammed back into his seat, thumping a pointing finger on the tabletop.

“I'm not in love with him.”

“What the hell was Gronder Field, Felix.” Felix leaned back in surprise.

“What, I chase after him so he doesn't get himself killed and that means I'm in love with him?” Ashe sighed and poured himself more tea.

“More like, he charged the enemy line and you made a face like you were going to die, and then you just abandoned your position and charged after him _on foot_—“

“Was I supposed to steal a horse—?”

“On foot, through a reforming enemy line, and then from what we all heard after, you almost murdered Claude.” Felix threw up a hand in exasperation.

“Why does everyone act like attacking Claude was some crazy thing I did; the quickest way to destabilize an enemy army is to take out its leader, and he was within bow range of Sylvain—“

“Who is a dark knight! He could have attacked him with magic himself if he wanted to.”

“Yes, but he _wasn't_, and I thought it was because he's a fool who was trusting his friendship and Riegan's academy crush on him to keep him from getting cut down—which, by the way, I was _right_ about. If the idiot told me before the battle that he was supposed to do it, I would have gone with him instead of having to chase him across the damn field.” Ashe just stared at him and rubbed his nose again.

“Alright. Fine. If you want to stick to those excuses for _your_ actions; you can't ignore Sylvain's, though.” Felix snorted, annoyed, but Ashe continued. “What about after the battle?”

“You mean when my father died?” he retorted, and Ashe flinched. “Sorry.”

“No, I... _I'm_ sorry. But, Sylvain barely left your side for two weeks.” Felix blinked. Had it really been that long? Of course they hadn't been together every waking moment, he would have wound up strangling Sylvain, and besides that Sylvain still had his own things to take care of, but...

“Huh. I...didn't realize. I wasn't thinking about it.” Which was true, he hadn't been thinking about how much Sylvain had been doing for him, how much he had been _letting _Sylvain do for him. He had been hurting and so very _tired _of hurting, fresh blood on an old wound, his stupid father dying the same stupid way his brother had. And he'd been forced to accept it, because it finally brought Dimitri back and bought them a real chance of winning the war, even though Felix hated it and hated it and hated it.

And Sylvain had cried what he wouldn't, and washed the blood and the soot and the battle off of him, and sat with him like he asked, and Felix hadn't even noticed that Sylvain might as well have held that arm around his shoulder for two weeks.

“That's just Sylvain,” he said, softly, brow furrowed. “He was looking out for me, it's what he does.” Ashe opened his mouth to say something, looked like he thought better of it, and closed his mouth again.

“Ok. Maybe he _was_ just comforting you.” Felix wanted to scoff at it but he couldn't really muster it. Sylvain had been looking out for him because no one else was—Byleth had tried, but they were too busy and too needed by everyone else for everything else. They couldn't spend two weeks watching Felix wrestle with his anger and his disappointment when everyone was expecting them to plan a winning war, not when Dimitri was finally _listening_. And Ingrid had tried, too, but Sylvain had... Felix's brows drew down even more, realizing Sylvain had taken the whole burden of Felix on, and Ingrid had actually _let _him.

“What about yesterday?” Felix blinked up at Ashe, shaken out of his thoughts.

Yesterday.

Felix's hands tightened into fists on top of the table, short fingernails pressing against his bare palms. He'd thrown out his gloves, too covered in Sylvain's stupid fucking blood to be salvaged, never mind that he got blood on his gloves all the time, he was a fucking _swordsman_—

“Yesterday,” he bit out, “was Sylvain being a stupid fucking idiot. An absolutely thoughtless moron. A complete and utter fool.”

“He saved your life—“

“Well he shouldn't have!” Felix slammed an open hand on the table, making the tea set clink and the crackers rattle in their tin. He half rose from his seat as he continued. “Am I supposed to be grateful?! How am I supposed to react if he d—“ he brought his hand up to his mouth and thumped back into his seat. The image of Sylvain so pale with that streak of his own blood on his cheek wouldn't leave him. Felix dragged his hand across his face, trying to pull everything back into himself, the anger and the betrayal and the fear and the... he breathed out slow through his nose.

“If he dies for me, am I supposed to be happy about it? When that, that bastard _knows_ how I feel about it? If he just throws his life away stupidly, like my brother, like my father, but for _me_?” Felix met Ashe's eyes, and he was so tired, and Ashe was always so damned _understanding_. “I'm certain Sylvain isn't in love with me because if he was he wouldn't _do that to me_.”

Ashe only looked at him gently, sitting there with his hands around his teacup, seeming to collect his words. The look was too soft and too _knowing_, and Felix grabbed his own teacup, gulping down the lukewarm tea and looking anywhere but at Ashe.

If this conversation kept up, if Ashe broke through the barrier of 'impossible' Felix had built in his heart around Sylvain, Felix was going to shatter like a goddamn eggshell under a boot and _then_ what would he do? What would he do, how would he put all of that away again, safely locked up and buried where it couldn't hurt him so much? He wouldn't be able to, any more than you could take that eggshell and put its contents back like new.

He could already feel himself cracking just talking about this.

He was saved by a knock on the door, one of the infirmary runners poking their head in to tell them Sylvain was awake, and then Felix wasn't thinking about Ashe at all anymore because he was rushing off to tell Sylvain what a fucking fool he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and subscribing, and all of your comments have been so sweet! Hope you enjoyed this update!
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@AceMorningStar](https://twitter.com/AceMorningStar)


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